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OUT  THERE 

* 

A  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION 

t 

IN  THREE  PARTS 

BY 
J.  HARTLEY  MANNERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  J.  HARTLEY  MANNERS 


All  Rights  Reserved 


NEW  YORK 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 
28-30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 

STRAND 


JS 


Especial  notice  should  be  taxen  that  the  possession  of 
this  book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first 
having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right 
or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play 
publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  produc- 
tion, recitation,  or  public  reading  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment 
of  a  royalty  of  Twenty-Five  Dollars  for  each  perform- 
ance, payable  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street, 
New  York,  one  week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is 
given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the 
play:  "Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French  of  New  York." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows. 

"SECTION  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep- 
resenting any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof, 
such  damages,  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not 
less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dol- 
lars for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court 
shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or 
persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  con- 
viction shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one 
year."— U,  S.  Revised  Statutes:  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


•£.        f=-   \/ 

z    «  M 


THE  AUTHOR  READS  HIS  PLAY  AT  THE  FIRST  REHEARSAL 

Seated  from  left  to  right:  Eleanora  de  Cisneros, 
Mrs.  Fiske,  George  Arliss,  Julia  Arthur,  James  T. 
Powers,  Beryl  Mercer,  James  K.  Hackett,  J.  Hartley 
Manners. 

Standing,  from  left  to  right:  George  MacFarlane, 
Burr  Mclntosh,  Laurette  Taylor,  H.  B.  Warner, 
George  M.  Cohan,  Chauncey  Olcott,  Helen  Ware, 
O.  P.  Heggie. 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

"Out  There"  was  chosen  as  the  play  with  which 
the  theatrical  profession  of  America  should  aid  the 
great  Red  Cross  drive  of  1918.  An  "all-star"  cast 
was  selected  and  the  little  band  of  loyal  actors  and 
actresses  toured  from  May  I3th,  1918,  to  June  ist, 
1918,  giving  twenty-three  performances  in  seventeen 
cities.  They  raised  a  total  of  $683,248  for  the  Red 
Cross. 

The  fifteen  "stars"  gave  their  services  entirely  free 
of  charge  and  paid  their  own  personal  expenses. 

It  was  the  greatest  thing  ever  done  for  the  greatest 
of  charities  by  the  members  of  the  great  Theatrical 
Profession. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  programme : 


THE  AMERICAN  RED  CROSS 

(By  arrangement  with  Klaw  &  Erlanger,  Cohan  & 
Harris  and  George  C.  Tyler) 

Presents 

OUT  THERE 

A  Dramatic  Composition  in  Three  Acts 

By  J.  Hartley  Manners 
Author  of  "The  Harp  of  Life"  and  "Happiness" 

Produced  under  the  personal  direction  of  the 
Author. 

PROGRAMME 
Part  One 

Inspiration 

A  room  in  a  lodging-house  during  the  Autumn  of 

1915 

"  'AUNTED"  ANNIE Miss  Laurette  Taylor 

"PRINCESS"  LIZZIE Miss  Helen  Ware 

"OLD  VELVET" Miss  Beryl  Mercer 

'ERB Mr.  H.  B.  Warner 

MONTE Mr.  James  T.  Powers 

DR.  HANWELL Mr.  George  Arliss 

5 


Part  Two 

Devotion 

The  "Orange- Walk" 

THE  SURGEON  Mr.  George  Arliss 

THE  IRISHMAN Mr.  Chauncey  Olcott 

THE  COCKNEY Mr.  0.  P.  Heggie 

THE  CANADIAN  Mr.  James  K.  Hackett 

THE  SCOTCHMAN Mr.  George  MacFarlane 

THE  AMERICAN Mr.  George  M.  Cohan 

GABRIELLE  Miss  Julia  Arthur 

THE  HELP Miss  Laurette  Taylor 

A  few  words  from  Mr.  Burr  Mclntosh 

Part  Three 

Revelation 

Division  i :    MRS.  HUDD'S  Rooms 

MRS.  HUDD Miss  Beryl  Mercer 

Miss  ELIZABETH  HUDD Miss  Helen  Ware 

HERBERT  HUDD Mr.  H.  B.  Warner 

MR.  MONTAGUE  MARSH Mr.  James  T.  Powers 

Division  2 :  A  Public  Place 

THE  NURSE Miss  Laurette  Taylor 

Mrs.  Fiske 

will  deliver  a  Red  Cross  appeal  written  expressly  for 
these  gala  performances  by  President  Wilson  and 
following  this  Mme.  Eleanora  de  Cisneros  will  sing. 

6 


Executive  Staff 

Acting  Managers — 

Walton  Bradford  and  Horace  C.  Judge 
Managers  in  Advance — 

W.  H.  Wright  and  William  Gorman 

General  Press  Representative John  P.  Toohey 

Stage  Manager William  Seymour 

Musical  Director   John  Harding 

Director  of  Transportation A.  J.  Simmons 

Master  of  Properties Edwin  Wakefield 

Chief  Electrician  Tony  Greshoff 

Burr  Mclntosh  sold  a  programme  autographed  by 
the  company  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  in  each  city. 

Auction  sales  were  conducted  by  De  Wolf  Hopper 
for  seats  before  the  arrival  of  the  company. 

These  sales  realized  the  sum  of  $164,437. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  tour  a  daily  history  of  the 
happenings  was  written  by  Laurette  Taylor  and  pub- 
lished by  the  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  under  the  title 
of  "The  Greatest  of  These." 


The  following  is  a  list  of  the  gross  takings  in  each 
town: 

May   13,   1918 — Washington $17,146 

May  14 — Baltimore 28,652 

May  15   (matinee) — Wilmington    II>999 

May  15  (evening) — Philadelphia 23,074 

May  16 — Brooklyn 22,334 

May  17-18  (3  performances) — New  York. .  57,461 

May   20 — Providence    18,960 

May  21 — Boston   62,109 

May  22 — New  Haven 31,091 

May  23 — Buffalo 38,073 

May  24-25  (3  performances) — Chicago  ....  78,075 

May  27 — St.  Louis  32,282 

May  28 — Louisville 3!,455 

May  29 — Cincinnati    48,803 

May  30  (2  performances) — Columbus 21,225 

May  31 — Cleveland  24,167 

June  i  (matinee) — Pittsburgh 6,126 

(evening) —  129,258 

On  the  occasion  of  the  last  performance  of  the 
tour  in  Pittsburgh  Burr  Mclntosh  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining the  highest  price  ever  paid  for  a  programme 
— $20,500 — and  the  total  receipts  (including  $100,- 
538  for  premiums)  made  the  greatest  known  at  that 
time,  and,  we  believe,  for  all  time  for  a  single  charity 
performance,  viz.,  $129,259. 

We  take  pleasure  in  presenting  a  play  with  so 
remarkable  a  history  to  the  reading  and  acting  public. 

Samuel  French. 


8 


DEDICATION 

To  the  wounded  men  in  Cliveden  Hospital  in  1915, 
whose  valour  in  fighting,  courage  in  suffering,  and 
spiritual  exaltation,  the  outcome  of  their  struggle 
against  barbarity,  will  always  be  a  cherished  memory. 

Wherever  they  go  they  carry  with  them  my  heart- 
felt wishes,  my  abiding  admiration,  and  my  deep  and 
lasting  affection. 

THE  AUTHOR. 

January,  1918. 


FOREWORD 


My  object  in  preparing  this  dramatic  composition 
was  to  endeavour  to  portray  something  of  the  feeling 
in  England  during  the  first  year  of  the  war.  To 
show  the  spirit  of  patriotism  beating  through  the 
poorest  of  homes :  the  courage  and  endurance  of  the 
men  who  went  to  fight  for  civilization :  and  the  hero- 
ism that  endures  grievous  hurt  without  a  murmur. 

It  is  in  no  small  measure  to  the  fervour  and  whole- 
souledness  of  thousands  of  "'Aunted  Annies"  that 
we  owe  the  splendid  citizen  army  of  three  and  a 
half  millions  raised  in  the  British  Empire  by  volun- 
tary enlistment.  Surely  an  achievement  that  will 
"blaze  a  trail"  down  through  the  ages! 

It  is  to  the  "  'Aunted  Annies"  no  less  that  we  owe 
the  amazing  output  of  the  great  munition  factories 
all  over  the  United  Kingdom.  It  is  to  the  white-heat 
of  patriotic  zeal  that  in  three  years  from  her  entrance 
into  the  war  England  had  outstripped  the  forty  years 
of  preparation  made  by  her  unscrupulous  and  brutal 
foe. 

All  honour  to  the  "Annief  of  England  and  her 
sisters  among  the  Allies ! 

In  the  second  part  I  have  tried  to  show  the  forti- 
tude under  adversity  and  the  resolute  indifference  to 
suffering  so  frequently  witnessed  by  my  wife  and  me 
in  an  English  hospital  in  1915.  Every  man  in  that 
"part"  is  drawn  from  life.  Their  spirit  was  unfor- 
gettable :  their  exaltation  superb ;  their  desire  to  see 
the  war  through  to  a  victorious  end  inspiring. 

II 


12  FOREWORD 

I  would  like  here  to  express  my  deep  sense  of 
gratitude  for  the  encouraging  and  generous  manner 
in  which  the  play  was  received  in  New  York.  Such 
appreciation  lightens  the  burden  and  makes  easier  the 
road  of  the  chronicler  of  world  events  as  he  sees 
them  by  the  writer  for  the  theatre. 

To  Laurette  Taylor  and  her  loyal  associates  I  owe 
a  lasting  debt  of  gratitude  for  breathing  life  and  soul 
into  the  characters,  and  so  making  the  "composition" 
possible. 

Produced  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  New  York,  March 
27th,  1917,  it  was  temporarily  withdrawn  of  June  2nd, 
and  revived  on  September  24th,  1917,  at  the  Liberty 
Theatre,  New  York. 

So  much  had  occurred  during  the  summer  months 
in  the  way  of  active  opposition  to  the  war  policy  of 
President  Wilson  by  obstructing  the  draft  law:  in- 
cendiary fires  in  various  parts  of  the  country :  strikes 
in  mines:  street-corner  agitators:  ravings  of  "con- 
scientious objectors"  and  pacifists  that  I  thought  it 
advisable  to  change  the  whole  tenor  of  "Annie's" 
speech  in  Trafalgar  Square.  It  was  no  longer  a  ques- 
tion of  recruiting :  conscription  had  been  passed.  It 
became  a  duty  to  expose  the  danger  of  such  methods 
of  retarding  the  Administration  in  its  great  work. 
Consequently,  on  September  24th,  in  place  of  the 
recruiting  appeal  the  following  speech  was  spoken 
by  Laurette  Taylor  from  the  Nelson  Monument  in 
Trafalgar  Square: — 

It's  funny,  me  standin*  up  'ere  tryin'^t*  maike 
speeches  t'  you.  Y'  know  I  ain't  got  much  of  a  voca- 
byerlerry,  but  I've  faand  it  ain't  alwa's  the  biggest 
words  as  maikes  big  things  clear.  Arter  all,  y'  tells 
'ow  y'r  feller  loves  y'  by  the  w'y  'e  looks  at  y' — not 
by  w'at  'e  says.  An'  y'  know  a  frien's  a  frien' — not 
by  w'at's  said,  but  by  the  hatmosphere  thet's  maide 
w'en  y'  both  come  t'gether.  So  I  want  y'  t'  see  in 


FOREWORD  13 

me  eyes  a  great  love  f'r  me  own  kind  as  I  speak. 
An'  I  want  y'  t'  feel  a  hatmosphere  o'  frien's-like, 
no  matter  w'at  I  say — an'  I  got  t'  speak  rough  t'- 
night,  'cause  I'm  addressin*  my  remarks  t'  thick- 
skinned  people — them  there  conshihenshus  hobject- 
ors. 

/  ain'  f'r  war,  I'm  f'r  peace.  But  once  y'r  country's 
in  it,  I  don't  see  w'at  y're  goin'  t'  do  but  'elp.  D* 
you? 

O'  corse  we've  got  conscripshun,  but  I  want  t'  talk 
t'  them  conshihenshus  hobjectors  an'  pacissyfists  as 
says  they  don*  b'lieve  in  war.  W'at  do  it  matter  if 
they  don'  b'lieve  in  war  ?  Bli*  me,  'oo  does?  Aatside 
o'  the  'Uns! 

Don'  b'lieve  in  it !  'Ere  it  is !  Y'  earn'  tell  Gawd 
y'  don'  b'lieve  in  Death  an'  expec'  t'  live  f'r  hever 
jus'  because  y'  said  it.  Y'  know,  the  'ole  world 
earn'  be  wrong  abaat  the  'Un.  Look  at  America! 
Wasn'  she  tolerant?  Germany  said,  "She  won*  come 
in.  She's  too  busy  caantin'  'er  money.'  But  Hamer- 
ica  'as  come  in, — with  both  'an's, — an'  both  feet, — and 
hairaplanes.  Do  you  know  w'at  a  Hamerican  general 
said  abaat  hairaplanes?  'E  said  as  a  fleet  o'  haira- 
planes was  the  proper  brood  o'  the  Hamerican  eagle. 
An'  I  'opes  as  'ow  the  heagle-11  prove  a  rabbit  at  it ! 

Pacissyfists!  Conshihenshus  hobjectors!  W'at 
kind  o'  fellers  are  they?  Just  as  we're  lickin'  the 
henemy,  an'  lickin'  'im  good,  they  stands  up  an'  says, 
"'Ere!  W'at 're  y' doin'?  /  want  peace T  Well, 
so  do  Hi!  So  do  we  all !  But  ye  don't  want  no  'alf- 
peace,  an'  then  'ave  t'  go  through  it  all  over  again 
as  soon  as  the  henemy's  'ad  time  t'  git  'is  bloomin' 
herficiency  workin',  do  we?  This  'as  got  t'  be  the 
hend  o'  war,  an' t'  maike  it  so  we  got  t'  beat  the  fel- 
lers as  thinks  nothin',  does  nothin',  and  schemes  noth- 
in'  but  war.  I  tell  y',  boys,  them  fellers  'as  got  t' 
be  licked,  an'  licked  good,  until  the  very  word  "War" 
maikes  'em  sick  to  'ear  it.  We  don'  want  pacissyfists 


i4  FOREWORD 

t'd'y.  We  want  fighters.  W'en  they've  done  their 
job,  an*  the  henemy's  knocked  right  aat,  w'y,  we'll 
all  be  'appy  pacissyfists  t'gether.  But,  first  of  all. 
they've  got  t'  prove  to  us  thet  the  word  "Pacissyfist" 
ain't  a  kemmerflarge  f'r  "I'm  afraid  t'  fight." 

I  know  a  funny  story  abaat  one  o'  these  'ere  pacis- 
syfists. A  soljer  in  uniform  goes  up  to  'im  one  d'y 
an'  says,  "  'Ere !  W'y  ain't  you  in  the  harmy  ?" 
"  'Cos  I  don'  b'Heve  in  war,"  says  the  pacissyfist. 
"Oh,  don't  y'?"  says  the  soljer.  "If  the  henemy 
caime  over  'ere,  d'  y'  mean  t'  s'y  y'  wouldn'  defend 
y'r  country?"  "No,  I  wouldn't,"  says  the  pacissyfist, 
"I  don'  b'lieve  in  fightin'."  "Well,  bli'  me!"  says  the 
soljer,  "if  some  of  'em  caime  right  inter  y'r  'ome  an' 
took  it,  d'  y'  mean  t'  say  y'  wouldn'  fight  t'  keep  w'at 
belonged  t'  y'  ?"  "No,"  said  the  pacissyfist,  "I  don' 
b'lieve  in  fightin'."  "An'  if  a  man  was  to  'it  y'  on 
the  nose,  wouldn't  y'  'it  back  ?"  "Cert'nly  not,"  says 
the  man  o'  peace.  "It  wouldn'  be  Christian-like." 
"Well,  so  'elp  me!"  says  the  soljer.  "You're  the 
bloke  the  'Uns  is  lookin'  for.  An'  before  they  gits 
at  y',  bli'  me,  I'll  'ave  a  cut  in  meself."  An'  with 
thet  the  soljer  'its  'im  str'ight  on  the  nose.  Naa,  the 
pacissyfist  'ad  never  been  'it  before,  an'  w'en  'e  felt 
the  paine  an'  taisted  the  blood  a-runnin'  into  'is  maath, 
w'y,  'e  couldn'  stand  it.  'E  ups  an'  'its  the  soljer  on 
the  jawr.  An'  then,  w'at  oh !  They  went  at  it  tooth- 
an'-nail,  a-knockin'  of  each  other  daan  till  their  eyes 
was  blacked  an'  their  faices  all  cut  abaat. 

Suddenly  the  soljer  stopped  an'  'eld  aat  'is  'and. 
"Look  'ere !"  'e  says.  "You're  no  bloomin'  pacissy- 
fist. You're  a  fighter,  you  are!" 

It  was  too  bad  'e  'ad  t'  be  'it  before  'e  knoo  w'at 
'e  was.  Thet  kind  will  fight  if  the  'Un  ever  gits 
over  'ere.  but  w'at  an  'opeless  fight  it'll  be  then.  The 
other  kind — the  kind  as  burns  the  country's  crops, 
an'  'olds  back  the  Gover'ment  by  strikes  an'  sich- 
like — an'  won't  'elp  the  boys  w'at's  gorn  aat — they 


FOREWORD  15 

ain't  pacissyfist  or  conshihenshus  hobjectors.  They're 
hactive  henemies,  so  'elp  me ! 

They're  a  funny  lot — pacissyfists !  An'  such  rea- 
sons as  they  give !  There's  the  pacissyfist  as  refuses 
i'  fight  because  Vs  a  Christian.  To  'im  I  say,  "'Aven't 
Christians  'ad  t'  fight  f'r  their  religion  ever  since  'e 
caime  daan  to  earth?"  An'  how  d'  y'  suppose  'e 
feels  w'en  the  henemy  destroys  the  plaices  w're  Chris- 
tians worship  'im?  Destroy  'em,  not  by  haccident, 
but  deliberately,  so  as  their  henemies  shan't  find  no 
peace  an'  comfort  even  there !  An'  our  Lord,  'isself , 
wasn't  above  showin*  'is  raige  wiv  the  money-chang- 
ers in  the  Temple. 

An'  look  at  the  Kaiser!  The  Kaiser  says,  "Me  an* 
Gawd."  7  say  to  all  Christians,  "Put  a  gun  on  y'r 
shoulder,  an'  go  an'  teach  thet  man  t'  be  respec'ful." 

But  of  all  the  diff'rent  kinds  o'  pacissyfists  the 
Hirish  pacissyfist  is  the  funniest.  Himagine  a  Hirish 
pacissyfist!  It  don'  seem  nachral,  do  it?  An*  it 
ain't  nachral.  There's  thaasan's  o'  Hirishmen  aat 
there  a-fightin'  f'r  the  Allies,  an'  thaasan's  of  'em  'as 
won  Victoria  Crorsses  and  medals.  An'  they  all 
believ'.  like  a  Hirishman  'ose  loyalty  'as  never  been 
doubted,  an'  'oo  put  it  better'n  /  can.  'E  said,  "I 
want  the  freedom  of  Hireland.  I  want  it  more  'n 
anything,  'ere  or  'ereafter.  But,  I  wouldn'  see  the 
freedom  of  Hireland  purchased  wiv  the  freedom  of 
Belgium !" 

So  come  along,  pacissyfists  an'  conshihenshus  hob- 
jectors !  Be  reasonable !  Y'  know,  you're  silly  talkin' 
peace  wiv  the  Tin  insultin'  y'  all  'e  knows  'ow.  It's 
no  use  goin'  t'  meet  the  henemy  wiv  Peace  an'  Good- 
will in  y'r  'an's.  'Ave  Peace  an'  Goodwill  in  y'r 
'earts,  but  be  sure  y'r  'an's  is  full  o'  s'rapnel.  Give 
'im  the  on'y  sort  o'  fightin'  'e  understan's.  Put  a  gun 
on  y'r  shoulder  an'  advarnce  singin'  the  song  all  the 
boys  sing: 


16  FOREWORD 


"We  licked  you  at  the  Marne, 
An'  we  beat  you  on  the  Aisne. 
We  gaive  you  'ell  at  Neuve  Chapelle, 
An'  'ere  we  are,  yes,  'ere  we  are  again." 

The  crowd  join  in,  stretching  out  their  hands  to 
Annie. 

I  now  leave  the  "composition"  in  the  reader's  hands 
in  the  hope  that,  though  shorn  of  the  genius  of 
Laurette  Taylor  and  her  splendid  company,  it  will 
still  convey  some  little  idea  of  England  in  the  first 
year  of  the  war ;  carry  some  message  from  a  unified 
Empire ;  and  leave  the  inspiration  of  daring  to  do  so 
that  civilization  may  endure. 

THE  AUTHOR. 

New  York. 

January,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

INSPIRATION 25 

DEVOTION         61 

REVELATION 103 


Produced  at  the 

Globe  Theatre,  New  York  City, 

on  Tuesday,  March  27th,  1917,  with  the  following 

cast: 

PART    I 

INSPIRATION 

A  room  in  a  lodging  house  during  the  autumn  of 
1915 

"  'AUNTED  ANNIE" Miss  Laurette  Taylor 

"PRINCESS"  LIZZIE Miss  Lynn  Fontanne 

"OLD  VELVET" Miss  Daisy  Belmore 

'ERB Mr.  Lewis  Edgard 

MONTE Mr.  Colin  Campbell 

DR.  HANWELL Mr.  Frank  Kemble  Cooper 

PART    II 

DEVOTION 

The  "Orange  Walk" 

THE  SURGEON Mr.  Frank  Kemble  Cooper 

THE  IRISHMAN Mr.  J.  M.  Kerrigan 

THE  COCKNEY Mr.  Leonard  Mudie 

THE  CANADIAN Mr.  Hubert  Druce 

THE  SCOTCHMAN Mr.  Douglas  Ross 

THE  NEW  ZEALANDER Mr.  A.  E.  Sproston 

GRIFFIN  Mr.  James  Archer 

TERENCE Mr.  Henry  Oxenford 

A  NEWCOMER Mr.  George  Kemble 

19 


20  OUT    THERE 

ANOTHER  NEWCOMER Mr.  Philip  Newman 

GABRIELLE Miss  Catherine  Proctor 

THE  HELP Miss  Laurettt  Taylor 

PART  III 

REVELATION 

Division  One — MRS.  HUDD'S  Rooms 

MRS.  HUDD Miss  Daisy  Beltnore 

Miss  ELIZABETH  HUDD Miss  Lynn  Fontanne 

PRIVATE  HERBERT  HUDD Mr.  Lewis  Edgard 

MR.  MONTAGUE  MARSH Mr.  Colin  Campbell 

Division  Two — A  Public  Place 
THE  NURSE Wt-tv  Laurette  Taylor 


PART   I 
INSPIRATION 


A  ROOM  IN  A  LODGING-HOUSE  DURING  THE  AUTUMN 
OF  1915 

"  'AUNTED"  ANNIE 

"PRINCESS"  LIZZIE 

"OLD  VELVET" 

'ERB 

MONTE 

DOCTOR  HAN  WELL 


INSPIRATION 

» 

A  shabby  living-room  in  a  poor  lodging-house.  A 
few  wooden  chairs;  a  much-used  deal  table; 
some  cuttings  new  and  old,  from  illustrated 
papers,  pasted  on  the  walls;  a  battered  chest  of 
drawers  RV  a  makeshift  couch,  L.C.;  a  dresser 
with  cups,  saucers,  plates,  etc.,  and  a  little 
cracked  hand-mirror,  L.;  a  threadbare  carpet; 
and  a  cheaply  framed  photograph  of  a  soldier 
in  uniform,  thirty -five  years  old,  taken  1899,  on 
wall  L.  over  door.  The  room  is  on  the  street 
level,  and  has  three  doors,  one  leading  by  the 
passage  to  the  street,  the  others  on  each  side  of 
the  room.  Street  door  at  end  of  passage.  There 
is  a  window  each  side  of  c.  door.  These  are 
both  open.  It  is  a  little  before  sunset  on  an  au- 
tumn evening.  In  from  the  street  come  the 
sounds  of  a  barrel-organ,  in  the  near  distance, 
playing  music-hall  songs  in  vogue  during  1915, 
varied  by  an  occasional  ballad  of  an  earlier  day. 
A  plaintive  voice  in  the  far  distance  cries  in 
high  register,  "Fine  large  shrimps !  Fine  large 
shrimps!"  as  he  slowly  moves  along.  Coming 
from  the  opposite  direction,  and  passing  on  more 
rapidly  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  loud-sound- 
ing bell,  a  high-pitched  voice  calls  defiantly, 
"Muffins!  Muffins!"  When  he  has  passed  a 
hoarse  voice  woos  the  neighbours  with  "  'Ta- 
ters,  all  'ot!  All  'ot  'later si"  The  Muffin  Man 
can  still  be  heard  in  the  distance. 

MONTE  passes  the  window  R.  and  goes  to  the  front 
door.    The  bell  in  the  room  just  below  door  L. 
25 


26  OUT  THERE 

rings.  There  is  no  response.  It  rings  the  sec- 
ond time,  and  no  one  answers.  As  it  rings  the 
third  time  a  tall,  slim,  flashily-dressed  girl  of 
nineteen  comes  irritably  out  of  an  inner  room, 
opens  the  door  into  the  passage,  goes  out,  and 
opens  the  street  door  as  far  as  the  chain  will 
allow.  Her  boots  creak  noisily  as  she  walks. 
Standing  on  the  doorstep  is  a  little,  active,  good- 
natured-looking  young  working-man  of  twenty- 
three.  He  is  in  his  "best"  black  clothes,  has  a 
clean  collar,  black  tie,  and  a  straw  hat  with  a 
black  band  around  it. 

LIZZIE.     'Ooo  is  it? 

MONTE.     Monte. 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  Gawd !  (She  releases  the  door  and 
holds  it  open.)  'Ello,  Monte! 

MONTE.     'Ello,  Princess! 

LIZZIE.    Can't  come  in.     Ma's  out. 

MONTE.  Oh,  is  she?  (He  turns  sideways  and 
edges  in.) 

LIZZIE.  Yaas.  I've  got  to  be  chappyroned  with 
you. 

MONTE.  (Edging  his  way  into  the  passage)  Ain't 
'Erbin?  (Closes  front  door.) 

LIZZIE.     No.     Nor  Annie.     I'm  all  alone. 

MONTE.     (Grinning)    Go  on!    Are  ye? 

LIZZIE.     Yaas.     So  clear  out ! 

MONTE.  (Grins,  pushes  past  her  through  the  pass- 
age, and  turns  at  the  door  of  the  room.)  Can't  I 
come  in  so  far? 

LIZZIE.  (Getting  between  him  and  the  room;  de- 
fiantly) I  tell  ye  I'm  on  me  lonesome.  So  get  out ! 
(With  a  gesture  as  if  throtving  out  something  un- 
desirable.) 

MONTE.  (Creeping  in  a  little  further)  This  won't 
'urt,  will  it?  (He  closes  inner  door.) 


L.IZZIE. 
cheeky ! 
MONTE. 
LIZZIE. 
MONTE. 
LIZZIE. 
MONTE. 
LIZZIE. 
MONTE. 
LIZZIE. 
MONTE. 
LIZZIE. 


'Ere.    Wot  yer  doin'  of  ?    You  ain't  'arf 


I  got  a  new  job,  Princess. 
(Indifferently)    That  so? 
Yaas.    Start  Monday. 
Wet  as  ?    A  mourner  ? 
Naa,  makin'  guns. 

(Laughs derisively)    Ha!    That's  funny! 
Wot  is  ? 

You  makin'  guns. 
Wot's  funny  abaat  it  ? 
(Laughing  sneeringly)     My!     Pipe  the 
gun-maker!     Little  six-penn'orth-of-'a'pence. 

MONTE.    (Drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  five  feet) 
Naa,  look  'ere.     Tha's  no  wye  t'  talk. 

LIZZIE.    Oh !    "Chise  me,  gals !    I'm  makin'  guns ! 
I'm  makin'  guns." 

MONTE.     Yer  think  I  can't?     Eh?     Come  daan 
and  watch  me. 

LIZZIE.    No,  old  dear.     I  goes  t'  the  theaytre  w'en 
I  wants  t'  laugh. 

MONTE.    Take  care,  Princess  Lizzie!     Don'  pl'y 


with  me. 

LIZZIE. 

MONTE. 

LIZZIE. 

MONTE. 

LIZZIE. 

MONTE. 

LIZZIE. 

MONTE. 

LIZZIE. 

MONTE. 
go  t'  Woolwich. 

LIZZIE.    Oh ! 


Go  an'  pl'y  by  y'rself. 

'Cos  I  come  raand  t'  see  y'r  ma. 
O  ?    W'at  abaat  ? 

'Er  daughter. 
Wot?    Annie? 

Naa,  you! 
Oh!     Is  that  so? 

Yaas. 
W'at  abaat  me  ? 

(Nervously)     Y'  see,  Monday  I 
T'  the  Arsenal. 
Oh !     (Laughs.    Sings) 


got  t' 


"I'm  workin'  at  the  Arsenal. 
The  Arsenal !     The  Arsenal !" 
MONTE.     Are  yer  finished  ? 


28  OUT  THERE 

LIZZIE.    O',  you! 

MONTE.  An'  I  want  t'  know  if  y'r  ma  'ould  let 
y'  come  along  too. 

LIZZIE.  Ma  let  me?  Let  me!  Wat's  ma  got  t' 
do  with  w'ere  I  go  ? 

MONTE.  Well,  yer  see,  yer  brother  'Erb  spoke  to 
me  abaat  you  the  other  day,  so  I  want  t'  be'ave  like 
a  gen'leman. 

LIZZIE.  That  'ould  take  a  bit  o'  doin'.  Wouldn't 
it? 

MONTE.  'Ow  abaat  it,  Princess?  Are  you  will- 
in'  if  y'r  ma  is? 

LIZZIE.  T'  go  t'  Woolwich?  W'at  d'y'  take  me 
for? 

MONTE.     I'll  tike  y'  f'r  anythin',  Princess. 

LIZZIE.     (Scornfully)     Is  that  so? 

MONTE.    Yaas,  Liz. 

LIZZIE.     'Ere!    Not  s*  much  of  the  "Liz"! 

MONTE.     We  bin  walkin'  aat ! 

LIZZIE.     W'at  of  it? 

MONTE.    Y'  don't  like  no  one  better? 

LIZZIE.     'Ooo  sez  I  don't? 

MONTE.     Do  y'? 

LIZZIE.    W'at  if  I  do? 

MONTE.  Gaan !  (Coaxingly)  No,  y'  don' !  (Get- 
ting a  little  nearer.)  Y'  got  t'  get  tied  up  sometime. 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  naow  I  ain't.  I  'aven't  'ad  my  fling 
yet. 

MONTE.    W'at  fling? 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  there's  lots  I  want  t'  do  afore  I  chucks 
meself  a  wye. 

MONTE.  Chucks  y'rself  ?  Is  that  'ow  y'  feel  abaat 
it? 

LIZZIE.    Wi'  you  ?    Yaas.    You're  a  gal's  last  'ope. 

MONTE.  Oh,  indeed?  Is  that  'ow  y'  feels  abaat 
me? 

LIZZIE.     Yaas.     It  is. 


OUT  THERE  29 

MONTE.  (Bitterly)  Y'  may  be  sorry  f'r  them 
words  if  I  tikes  y'  up  on  'em. 

LIZZIE.  Well,  tike  me  up  on  'em !  I  ain't  seen 
'alf  nor  done  'alf  I  wants  t'.  No  dish-washin*  an' 
babies  an'  gin  f'r  me — yet!  I  m'y  come  to  it.  Y' 
never  know  y'r.luck!  Then  I'll  drop  y'  a  post- 
card. 

MONTE.  That's  a  nice  w'y  t'  talk  o'  marriage! 
Wonder  y'  ain't  ashamed !  Dish-washin',  babies,  an* 
gin !  My  word ! 

LIZZIE.  That's  w'at  it's  bin  f'r  ma.  She  washes 
th'  dishes — w'at's  left  of  'em.  She  'ad  three  of  us, 
an*  she's  aout  on  a  gin-crawl  naow.  Not  f'r  me. 
Tike  a  walk,  young  man,  tike  a  walk. 

MONTE.     This  m'y  be  the  last  time  I'll  arst  y'. 

LIZZIE.     I  'ope  it  is. 

MONTE.    There's  lots  o'  gals  in  Woolwich. 

LIZZIE.     (Indifferently)     I  dess'y. 

MONTE.  (Changing  his  tone;  goes  over  to  her 
coaxingly  again)  We've  had  some  nice  times. 

LIZZIE.    'Ave  we? 

MONTE.    Ain't  we? 

LIZZIE.    Some  might  call  'em  sich. 

MONTE.    (Touches  her)    W'at's  the  matter,  Liz  ? 

LIZZIE.  (Shaking  herself  free)  Aow,  let  me 
alone,  cawn't  y'  ? 

MONTE.     They'll  p'y  me  good  money  in  Woolwich. 

LIZZIE.     Treat  the  Woolwich  gals  with  it,  then. 

MONTE.  (Despondently)  Then  it's  no  use  waitin' 
t'  see  y'r  ma? 

LIZZIE.  Naow,  it  ain't.  Don't  suppose  she'll  be 
able  t'  talk  t'  y'  w'en  she  comes — poor  ol'  "Gin-an'- 
water" !  So  'op  it. 

MONTE.     Ain't  we  goin'  t'  walk  out  no  more? 

LIZZIE.  Not  knowin',  cawn't  s'y — not  hinterested, 
don't  care !  (  MONTE  stands  disconsolately  and  gives 
a  deep  sigh.  LIZZIE  laughing)  You're  a  rum  little 
blighter! 


30  OUT  THERE 

MONTE.     (Bitterly)     Rum,  am  I? 

LIZZIE.  (With  a  sudden  burst)  Look  'ere,  it's 
no  use  talkin'  t'  me  abaat  marriage.  I  ain't  that  sort. 
I  don't  want  t'  be  tied  up  to  a  couple  o'  rooms  an'  a 
biby  every  year.  I  seen  too  much  of  it.  I  got  'igher 
ideas  n'r  that 

MONTE.     Oh,  Liz 

LIZZIE.  I  earns  me  w'y,  an'  I  does  as  I  likes.  They 
don't  call  me  "Princess"  at  the  factory  f'r  nothin'. 
(Wets  her  finger  and  sticks  the  curl  down  on  her 
forehead.)  I'm  goin'  t'  do  as  I  likes  as  long  as  I 
likes.  Wen  I'm  sick  of  it  come  raan  again  if  y' 
don'  find  a  gal  in  Woolwich. 

MONTE.  All  right,  Princess.  An'  y're  well  nimed. 
Y're  waitin'  for  a  bloomin'  dook,  ain't  y'  ? 

LIZZIE.    Wat  if  I  am?     (Sings.) 
"Oh,  'e'll  tike  me  t'  ride  in  'is  bruffam,  'is  bruffam, 
A  swell  I'll  be  of  the  d'y." 
Good-bye,  Monte! 

MONTE.     An' t'  think  I  loved  y'  once ! 

LIZZIE.  Don'  let  it  keep  y'  awike.  There's  others. 
Wat  abaat  me  sister,  Annie  ? 

MONTE.  Annie !  (Opens  door,  quickly  goes  out, 
then  puts  his  head  round  door.)  Goo'-bye,  Eliza- 
beth! (Closes  door.) 

LIZZIE.     Tata !     Ferdinand ! 

(  MONTE  goes  out  through  front  door.) 

'LizziE.  (Goes  to  window  and  calls  to  him)  Monte, 
bring  us  a  cannon  from  Woolwich,  t'  wear  nex'  me 
'eart.  (Laughs  and  sings.) 

"I'm  goin'  t'  work  in  the  Arsenal ! 
The  Arsenal !    The  Arsenal !" 

(Moves  away  from  the  window,  thinks  frowningly 
for  a  minute,  gives  a  toss  of  the  head.    Picks  up 


HES 
HAPPY  & 
SATISFIED 


Courtesy  of  White   Studio 


"  'AUXTED"  AXXIE 


OUT  THERE  31 

hand  mirror,  looks  at  herself  for  a  moment,  and 
goes  bock  to  the  inner  room. 

(In  the  far  distance  the  criers  call  their  wares.  A 
shrill,  cheery  vendor  chirps,  "Fine  kipper!  Nice 
kipper!  Sweet  kipper!  Pick  'em  out  where  ye 
like!  Smell  'em,  lidy!  Sweet-scented,  lovely 
kipper!  Fresh  from  the  water!  Fine  kipper! 
Sweet  kipper!  Lovely  kipper!  Where  ye  like! 
Pick  'em  out!"  Very  faintly  can  be  heard  the 
barrel-organ.  The  outer  door  is  opened  by  a 
latch-key,  and  then  the  inner  door  opens,  and  a 
young,  thin,  pale,  wide-eyed  girl,  very  quietly 
dressed,  comes  in  wearily.  She  goes  to  dresser 
and  gets  hammer  and  some  tacks,  and  tacks  on 
the  door  a  recruiting  poster  she  has  brought  in 
with  her.  It  is  one  of  the  famous  recruiting 
posters  used  in  England  during  1915.  It  rep- 
resents the  head  of  a  smiling  English  soldier. 
Above  him  the  words,  "Enlist  to-day."  Beneath 
him,  "He's  Happy  and  Satisfied.  Are  You?" 
She  looks  around  the  room,  takes  off  her  hat  and 
coat,  puts  them  down  on  the  chest  of  drawers, 
takes  out  a  key,  opens  a  drawer  with  it,  takes 
out  of  the  drawer  some  needlework,  sits  beside 
the  window  so  as  to  get  the  light,  and  begins  to 
sew  feverishly.  After  a  few  moments  LIZZIE 
looks  in.) 

LIZZIE.  I  thought  I  'card  the  door  go. 

ANNIE.  Y'ref  'ome  early? 

LIZZIE.  Wat   of    it? 

ANNIE.  Nothin'. 

LIZZIE.  Coin'  t'  the  theaytre. 

ANNIE.  Are  ye? 

LIZZIE.  Yaas. 

ANNIE.  With  Monte? 

LIZZIE.  (Disdainfully)     Monte!     Naow!    Little 
shrimp ! 


32  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.     Oh,  Liz! 

LIZZIE.  'E  was  all  right  w'ile  it  lasted.  Got  a 
noo  feller  now. 

ANNIE.     Oh? 

LIZZIE.    Yaas.    He  travels  for  a  doll  factory. 

ANNIE.     Were  did  y'  meet  'im? 

LIZZIE.     One  o'  the  gals. 

ANNIE.     I  liked  Monte. 

LIZZIE.    You  would.    Well,  y'  can  'ave  'im. 

ANNIE.  (Just  looks  at  her.  Goes  on  sewing) 
Mother  in? 

LIZZIE.     Naow.     Aat  doin'  the  rounds. 

ANNIE.  She  oughtn't  t'  be  out  so  much,  an'  she 
like  she  is. 

LIZZIE.  (Taking  a  "bottle  off  the  dresser,  shaking 
it  and  holding  it  up.)  That's  w'y!  All  'er  "vel- 
vet's" gone.  Makes  me  sick!  I  want  t'  git  aat  o' 
this — travel  abaat.  My  feller  does,  all  the  time.  Up 
an'  daan  the  country.  That's  livin' ',  that  is.  'Stead 
o'  stickin'  abaat.  Ma  makes  me  sick.  Ol*  soak! 

ANNIE.  It's  all  the  comfort  she's  got.  Don' 
grudge  it. 

LIZZIE.  (Looking  at  ANNIE,  disgustedly)  I  do 
grudge  it.  Nice  plice  t'  come  'ome  to!  You  an' 
mother!  One  alwa's  sewin',  an'  the  other  alwa's 
swillin'.  (Sings  as  she  sits  on  the  table  dangling  her 
feet) 

"I  wants  a  tiddley,  a  tiddley-iddley-iddley. 

I  wants  a  tiddley  naow  an'  then." 
Wat  are  y*  sewin'  ? 

ANNIE.     Rags. 

'LizziE.  (Laughs  contemptuously)  Yaas!  All 
you'll  ever  'ave!  Sittin'  around  doin'  nothin' — sew- 
in'!  Wy  don't  y'  go  aat  an'  git  work? 

ANNIE.  I've  bin  'most  every  d'y.  Cawn't  git 
nothin'  just  naow. 

LIZZIE.  No  wonder !  With  a  fice  like  that !  Gives 
me  the  fair  'ump  t'  look  at  y'.  Y're  "  'Aunted  An- 


OUT  THERE  33 

me,"  an*  no  mistake.  Wat's  come  over  y'?  Y' 
used  t'  laugh  once. 

ANNIE.     I  don'  feel  like  laughin'  jus'  naow. 

LIZZIE.     W'y?    'Cos  y'r  feller's  gone? 

ANNIE.     No.     I'm  glad  o'  that. 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  are  yer?  You  an'  Ma!  Gi'  me  the 
pip!  (Goes  over  and  stands  looking  dorvn  at  AN- 
NIE. )  F'r  Gawd's  sake  w'at  -is  that  there  ye're  work- 
in'  at?  (Tries  to  snatch  it.) 

ANNIE.  (Rolls  it  up,  stands  up,  and  faces  her) 
Never  you  mind ! 

LIZZIE.     W'y  won't  y'  show  it? 

ANNIE.  'Cos  I  won't  'ave  y'  laughin'  at  me. 
That's  w'y!  Y'  alwa's  laugh  at  everything  I  do. 

LIZZIE.  W'y  shouldn't  I?  Ain't  ye  my  sister? 
'Oo  are  you — not  t'  be  laughed  at  ? 

ANNIE.     Y'r  not  goin'  t'  laugh  at  this. 

LIZZIE.     Oh,  ain't  I? 

ANNIE.     No.     You  ain't. 

LIZZIE.     Le'  me  see.     (She  tries  to  snatch  it.) 

ANNIE.     (Warningly)    You  keep  y'r  'ands  off ! 

LIZZIE.  Is  it  y'r  bloomin'  trousseau,  eh?  Give  it 
me!  (She  seizes  it.  They  struggle  for  it.) 

ANNIE.     (Frantically)     Le'  go!    Le'  go! 

(LizziE  gives  it  a  twist.) 
ANNIE.     Don't  y'  tear  it ! 

(LizziE  gives  it  another  twist.) 

ANNIE.     (Begins  to  cry)    Please  don't  tear  it! 

(LizziE  nearly  pulls  it  from  her.) 

ANNIE.  (Fiercely)  If  y'  tear  it  I'll  kill  y',  so  I 
will !  (Beats  at  her  furiously  until  she  completely 
cows  her.  Then  pushes  her  away,  glaring  ferociously 


34  OUT  THERE 

at  her.)  I'm  sorry  if  I  'urt  yer.  You  keep  away 
from  this — and  from  me — or  you'll  be  sorry. 

LIZZIE.  (Snivelling.  Thoroughly  frightened.)  I 
didn'  mean  nothin'!  (Backing  away  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance.) 

ANNIE.  I've  'ad  enough  of  y'r  gibes  an'  sneers. 
You  let  me  alone ! 

LIZZIE.  (Recovering  herself  a  little)  I  s'y !  Wat 
a  temper!  (Rubbing  her  shoulder  where  ANNIE 
struck  her.)  An'  ain't  we  strong?  Y'  ougbt  t'  be 
a  bruiser  like  'Erb.  That's  w'at  you  ought  t'  be. 
A  bloomin'  fighter ! 

ANNIE.  (Smoothing  out  the  work  they  had  iust 
fought  over)  I'd  like  t'  be  a  fighter.  If  I  was  'Erb 
I  would  be. 

LIZZIE.    Oh!     Is  that  so? 

ANNIE.  Yaas.  That's  so!  If  I  was  'Erb,  I 
wouldn'  be  loafin'  round  'ere.  I'd  go  out  and  fight 
proper.  (Goes  to  drawer,  puts  the  work  in,  locks 
the  drawer  and  puts  the  key  in  her  pocket.) 

(The  door  swings  open,  and  a  young,  active  wan, 
about  twenty-four,  strongly  built,  wearing  a  light 
tweed  suit  a  good  deal  the  worse  for  wear,  a 
woollen  muffler,  and  a  cricket  cap  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  stands  in  'the  doorway.  His  right 
eye  is  slightly  discoloured.) 

"LizziE.    'Ere  'e  is.     Nah  tell  'im  w'at  y'  said. 

'ERB.     Tell  me  w'at? 

LIZZIE.  She  says  you  ought  t'  be  fightin'.  Didn't 
y'  now? 

ANNIE.     Yes,  I  did.    An'  'e  knows  'e  ought  t'  be. 

'ERB.  I  'ave  bin.  Pipe  the  lamp  ?  (Touches  his 
eye.) 

LIZZIE.     Oh,  I  s'y !    Oh !    Look  at  'is  eye ! 

'ERB.  Never  mind  about  my  eye.  Y'  should  'a' 
seen  'is.  Both  on  'em! 


OUT  THERE  35 

LIZZIE.     Did  y'  win? 

'ERB.  Yaas.  Knocked  'im  stone  cold  in  the  fi'th 
raound.  (Takes  out  some  coins.)  See?  Money  t' 
spend ! 

LIZZIE.  (Tries  to  snatch  it.  Admiringly)  My! 
You  ain't  'alf  all  right! 

'ERB.     (Takes  out  a  small  flask)    Forma! 

LIZZIE.    Oh,  "Velvet"  ?    (Takes  flask^  from  him.) 

'ERB.  Yaas.  Keep  'er  goin'  f'r  a  bit!  (LizziE 
places  flask  in  dresser.)  An'  s'y !  (Pulls  out  a  paper 
package.)  Chuck  that  under  y'r  chin.  (Throws  it 
at  her.) 

LIZZIE.  (Catches  it,  unwraps  it,  and  produces  a 
bright  red  ribbon.)  Much  obliged,  I'm  sure,  'Erb. 
I'll  wear  it  at  the  theaytre  tonight.  (Ties  it,  and 
looks  at  herself  in  the  cracked  hand-mirror.) 

'ERB.  Saw  it  in  a  winder.  Thought  it  'ould  be 
y'r  fancy.  (Looks  at  ANNIE.J  I  ain't  brought  you 
nothin'. 

ANNIE.     All  right,  'Erb. 

'ERB.     Wat  was  y'  s'ying  abaat  me? 

LIZZIE.  She  was  s'ying  if  she  was  you  she'd  be 
fightin'. 

'ERB.     Oh,  did  ye? 

ANNIE.     Yaas.     I  did.    An'  I  would  be,  too. 

*ERB.     You  shut  yer  trap  abaat  me. 

ANNIE.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  t'  be  fightin'  a  lot 
o'  brutes  f'r  y'r  country  than  'ittin'  one  o'  y'r  own 
kind  f'r  a  few  shillin's  ? 

'ERB.  That's  my  business.  See?  An'  y'  can  take 
it  from  me  now,  I'm  not  goin'.  See? 

ANNIE.     Yes,  y'  will.     You'll  go.     By-and-bye. 

'ERB.     If  they  want  me  let  'em  come  an'  fetch  me. 

ANNIE.  They  want  y',  all  right.  And  lots  more, 
too.  An'  they'll  fetch  y'  w'en  the  time  comes.  But 
I  don'  want  y'  t'  go  becos  y've  bin  fetched.  I  want 
y'  t'  go  becos  y've  got  the  call  in  y'r  mind.  Becos, 


36  OUT  THERE 

'Erb,  y'  are  needed.  Y'  know  they  need  y'.  (She 
looks  straight  at  him.) 

'ERB.  (Shrugs  his  shoulders  and  turns  away  from 
her.  Points  to  the  picture  of  the  soldier  on  the  wall.) 
Father  was  needed,  wasn't  he? 

ANNIE.     An'  'e  went. 

'ERB.  Yaas,  an'  got  killed.  An'  w'at  did  a  grite- 
ful  country  do  f'r  'is  wife  an'  kids?  Eh?  Answer 
me  that! 

ANNIE.     We've  got  along,  'Erb. 

'ERB.  Yaas,  an'  they  can  git  along  without  me, 
same  as  we  'ave  without  them.  'Ow  old  was  'e 
w'en  'e  went?  Thirty-five!  That's  w'at  'e  was. 
Prime  o'  life!  Cut  orf  by  a  Boer  bullit,  an'  buried 
Gawd  knows  w'ere.  None  o'  that  f'r  me !  Me  life's 
me  own.  See?  I  wan  it.  Let  them  as  likes  go. 
-  Not  me ! 

ANNIE.  I  don't  like  t'  'ear  y'  talk  like  that.  Y'r 
life  belongs  t'  the  country  y'  was  born  in,  'Erb. 

'ERB.  Naow,  you  leave  off  naggin'!  See?  'Cos 
I  ain't  goin'.  It's  all  very  fine  for  a  parcel  o'  women 
t'  be  shaatin',  "Go !  Go !  Go !"  W'at  are  you  do- 
in',  eh? 

ANNIE.     I'd  do  my  bit  if  they'd  let  me. 

'ERB.  (Turns  his  head  and  looks  at  her  for  a  sec- 
ond) A  fat  lot  you'd  do! 

ANNIE.  I  would.  (With  a  sudden  thought.)  If 
I  did  go,  would  y'  go  ? 

'ERB.  You!  (Laughs.)  Ho!  Bli'  me!  She'd 
run  away  from  a  pop-gun. 

ANNIE.  No,  I  wouldn't.  If  I  did  go,  would  y' 
go? 

'ERB.  Naow,  look  'ere,  y'  nagged  the  feller  y' 
was  walkin'  aat  with  inta  goin',  but  y'  ain't  goin'  to 
me. 

ANNIE.     I  didn'  nag  Dick. 

'ERB.     Yaas,  y'  did.     Y'  was  alwa's  at  'im. 

ANNIE.     I'm  sorry  y'  think  that.    'E  didn'  need 


OUT  THERE  37 

any  naggin'.  We  jus*  talked  it  over,  quiet-like,  an* 
nex'  day  'e  'listed.  (Pause.)  If  I  did  go,  would  you 
go?  If  I  could  git  aat  there,  somehow — (Leaning 
over  him) — would  y'  go?  (She  touches  his  shoul- 
der.) 

'ERB.     Oh,  shut  up ! 

LIZZIE.  'Oo's  goin'  t'  tike  care  o'  ma  an'  me  if 
'Erb  went,  I'd  like  t'  know? 

ANNIE.  You're  in  a  good  job.  Mother's  got  'er 
bit  o'  pension. 

LIZZIE.  Pension!  My  word!  'Ardly  keeps  'er 
in  gin!  You  let  'Erb  alone!  There's  plenty  of 
others. 

ANNIE.  (Earnestly  to  'Ens,  her  eyes  distended. 
She  "kneels  with  one  knee  on  couch.)  If  I  did  go, 
would  y'  go  ? 

'ERB.  (Uneasily,  draws  back,  looking  at  ANNIE  j 
'Ark  at  'er !  (Turns  to  LIZZIE .)  She  do  look  'aunted, 
don'  she?  (Turns  again  to  ANNIE.J 

LIZZIE.  Daft,  I  calls  'er.  (They  are  both  look- 
ing at  ANNIE.) 

ANNIE.  I  am  'aunted,  'Erb.  I  think  it  must  be 
becos  father  went  that  w'y.  'E  'ad  the  call  an'  'e 
answered  it,  an*  I'm  sure  'e's  'appier  becos  'e  did. 
It  don'  seem  fair  to  them  aat  there  t'  be  'olding  back. 
If  I  did  go,  'Erb — would  you  go? 

'ERB.     You  go  aat  there,  an'  I'll 

ANNIE.     Y'll  go? 

'ERB.  I'll  see  abaat  it.  (He  rises  without  taking 
his  eyes  off  ANNIE,  and  backs  away  to  LIZZIE  for 
protection.  Takes  her  hand.) 

(There  is  a  knock  at  the  outer  door.  There  is  a 
pause;  no  one  moves.  The  silence  is  broken  by 
a  second  knock.  ANNIE  goes  over  to  chest  of 
drawers,  and  arranges  sewing.  'ERB  is  just 
about  to  answer  knock  when  he  sees  poster.) 


38  OUT  THERE 

'£RB.    'Ere,  'oo  put  that  there? 
ANNIE.     I  did.     (Sits  and  starts  to  sew.) 
'ERB.    Oh! 

(The  house  bell  rings.  'ERB  slouches  over  and 
throws  the  door  open.  DR.  HANWELL,  a  tall, 
genial,  polished,  distinguished  man  of  fifty-five, 
is  standing  outside.) 

DR.  HANWELL.     May  I  come  in? 

'ERB.     Yaas,  y'  m'y. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Thank  ye!  (Conies  in  through 
the  inner  door,  takes  off  his  hat,  bows  to  th<*  two 
girls,  turns  around  to  'ERB  just  as  that  young  gen- 
tleman slams  the  door  and  slouches  back,  and  smiles 
at  him.)  You  did  very  well  in  putting  that  boy  out 
last  night,  my  lad. 

'ERB.  An'  w'y  shouldn't  I,  young  feller-me-lad 
y'rself? 

DR.  HANWELL.  'Why  shouldn't  you?  You're  a 
born  fighter.  (There  is  an  awkward  pause.  '£RB 
says  "O"  and  goes  over  to  LIZZIE.  DR.  HANWELL 
to  ANNIEJ  How  is  your  mother? 

ANNIE.     Better,  thank  ye,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Is  she  in? 

ANNIE.  No,  sir.  She  just  stepped  out  a  little 
while  ago.  She  won*  be  long. 

LIZZIE.  (Holding  up  the  empty  bottle)  Doctor, 
the  bottle  was  empty,  so  she  went  out  to  get  some 
gin.  (Goes  into  inner  room.) 

'ERB.  W'y  didn'  she  wait  for  me?  (Holds  up 
the  flask  he  brought.)  I  got  'er  one,  and  full  o' 
"Velvet."  (He  follows  LIZZIE  out,  slamming  the 
door.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  It's  a  pity  your  mother  is  not  in. 
I  should  have  liked  to  see  her.  This  is  my  last  visit. 

ANNIE.     (Wide-eyed  and  disappointed)     Is  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Yes.     I'm  off  tomorrow. 


OUT  THERE  39 

ANNIE.  (Rises)  Off?  (With  a  gasp)  Not  to— 

not  to (Breaks  off,  makes  a  gesture  indicating 

a  long  way  off.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiling)  "Somewhere  in 
France." 

ANNIE.  (Enthusiastically)  Oh!  Are  ye?  'Ors- 
pital  work? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Yes. 

ANNIE.  (Yearningly)  Lots  o'  nurses  goin',  I 
expect  ? 

DR.  HAWELL.  Yes.  (  ANNIE  sighs  and  sits  again.) 
I  thought  I'd  run  in  and  se'e  your  mother  while  I 
was  down  here,  though  she  was  going  on  very  well 
last  week. 

ANNIE.  She's  pretty  well  now,  sir.  All  the  cuts 
are  'ealed  up.  'Er  'ead  troubles  'er,  though.  I 
didn'  want  'er  t'  go  aat  t'd'y. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Oh,  fresh  air  is  good  for  her. 

ANNIE.     It  ain't  very  fresh  w'ere  she  goes,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Where's  that? 

ANNIE.  (Wistfully)  The  "Mother  Red  Cap." 
That's  'er  favourite  Public  House. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiles,  shakes  his  head)  What 
a  pity! 

ANNIE.  She  meets  'er  friends,  y'  know.  Pretty 
lonely  f'r  'er  'ere  w'en  we're  all  aw'y. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Was  she  coming  from  the 
"Mother  Red  Cap"  when  she  was  run  over? 

ANNIE.  Yaas,  sir.  (Hurriedly)  Oh,  but  she  was 
all  right.  She  alwa's  is.  It  was  the  chauffeur's 
fault.  An'  the  street's  that  dark  since  the  war's  on. 
'E  might  'a'  got  any  one,  the  rate  'e  was  goin'. 

DR.  HANWELL.  There  was  no  trace  of  liquor  on 
her  when  she  was  brought  into  the  hospital. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  there  never  is.  She  carries  her  gin 
very  well.  Done  it  all  'er  life.  Says  it  kind  o' 
preserves  'er. 


40  OUT  THERE 

DR.  HAN  WELL.  (Smiling)  Alcohol  can  preserve. 
It  can  also  destroy,  my  girl. 

ANNIE.  (Smiling  sadly)  Mother's  one  o'  the 
preserved.  Wen  I  was  workin',  gettin'  good  money, 
too,  I  'ad  all  this  fitted  up  like  a  private  bar,  so  as  t' 
keep  'er  in.  Got  in  everythin'  she  wanted,  an'  some 
extry  glarses  f'r  'er  friends.  Didn't  last.  (Sadly.) 
D'y'  know  w'at  I  think  it  was?  (DR.  HANWELL 
shakes  his  head.)  She  missed  the  bright  lights  an' 
the  noise,  and  the  sawdust  on  the  floor.  No  'ome  is 
in  it  with  a  public  'ouse  once  y'  git  the  'abit. 

DR.  HANWELL.  I  suppose  not.  I'm  glad  to  hear 
she's  going  on  so  well. 

ANNIE.  (Rises)  Won't  we  see  yer  after  termor- 
row? 

DR.  HANWELL.     No. 

ANNIE.  It's  bin  very  kind  of  y'  t'  come  round 
after  'er,  sir.  W'y  'ave  y'  done  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.  I  happened  to  be  in  charge  at 
the  hospital  when  she  was  brought  in.  I  like  to  see 
a  case  right  through  if  I  can. 

ANNIE.     Don't  y'  charge  anythin'  f'r  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.  No.  not  this  end  of  the  town.  I 
get  all  I  want  out  of  the  other  end.  (Smiling.) 
The  West  End. 

ANNIE.     You'll  be  missed  round  'ere,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Laughs)  I'm  wanted  out  there. 
Besides,  some  one  will  take  my  place.  You'll  not 
be  neglected.  (His  hand  on  door  knob.) 

ANNIE.  (Suddenly  and  vehemently)  Oh,  Doctor, 
Doctor!  I  cawn't  bear  t'  be  lef  be'ind! 

DR.  HANWELL.     (Astonished)     Left? 

ANNIE.  You're  goin'  t'  do  somethin'  f'r  your 
country.  I'm  'ere  doin'  nothin' — nothin'! 

DR.  HANWELL.  There  will  be  plenty  for  every 
one  to  do  presently.  Every  class  will  have  to  do  its 
share. 

ANNIE.     But  I  don'  want  t'  wait.     (Earnestly) 


OUT  THERE  41 

I  want  t'  begin  naow.     Take  me  with  ye.     Will  ye  ? 

DR.  HAN  WELL.    Take  you"? 

ANNIE.  (Nods)  Aat  there.  Will  ye?  I  want 
t'  'elp. 

DR.  HANWELL.     How? 

ANNIE.     I  want  t'  be  a  nurse. 

DR.  HANWELL.     That's  impossible. 

ANNIE.     W'y  is  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.     You  have  had  no  training. 

ANNIE.  I'll  learn.  Learn  fast,  too.  I'm  very 
quick.  Please  take  me.  I'll  begin  at  the  bottom. 
I'll  scrub  floors — wash  their  clo'es — tear  up  bandages 
— anything  jus'  t'  be  near  'em.  I  want  t'  be  close  t' 
the  fellers  who're  gettin'  wounded  f'r  us. 

DR.  HANWELL.     My  good  girl — 

ANNIE.  I've  done  a  bit  o'  nursin'  here,  right  in 
this  room.  Wen  mother  was  all  cut  abaat  I  'elped 
ter  bind  'er  up,  didn't  I  ?  Y'  said  once  I  'ad  the  right 
'ands  for  a  nurse ;  an'  the  kind  o'  voice :  that  me 
place -was  at  a  bedside.  W'as  y'  kiddin'  me? 

DR.  HANWELL.  No.  But  it's  very  different  nurs- 
ing your  mother 

ANNIE.  If  I  could  do  it  f'r  'er,  w'y  couldn't  I 
do  it  f'r  them?  Do  let  me  go.  I  want  to  be  among 
'em.  It's  'orrible  t'  sit  'ere  'elpless.  D'  y'  know 
w't  'appened  t'  my  father  in  Africa? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Killed? 

ANNIE.  Yaas.  But  'e  needn't  'a'  bin.  'E  laid 
all  d'y  with  a  bullit  in  'im.  No  one  t'  give  'im  a 
drop  o'  water  or  anythin'.  Wen  they  found  'im  it 
was  too  late.  I  might  find  some  one  like  that  an' 
save  'em.  Let  me  go  just  as  a  water-carrier. 

DR.  HANWELL.     But  you've  had  no  experience. 

ANNIE.  Wat  experience  'ave  the  fine  lidies  got 
*oo  are  goin'  aat  all  the  time?  W'at  d'  they  know 
that  I  cawn't  learn?  They  go  f'r  the  excitement — 
an' t'  get  their  fices  in  the  paper.  Does  any  one  arst 
them  w'at  experience  they've  'ad?  'Ow  d'  they  git 


42  OUT  THERE 

aat?  Becos  they're  rich  an'  know  people.  I  only 
knows  you.  Do  somethin'  f'r  me.  I  don'  want  no 
pay — jus'  me  keep.  I'll  go  on  till  I  drop.  Wat  can 
them  lidies  do  that  I  cawn't?  If  one  of  'em  gits  a 
stitch  in  'er  side  she  goes  back  'ome,  an'  then  she's 
an  'ero. 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  mustn't  say  that.  Some  of 
the  finest  people  in  the  country  are  working  nobly 
out  there.  No  sacrifice  is  too  great. 

ANNIE.  That's  it.  The  rich  can  mike  sacrifices. 
W'y  cawn't  the  poor?  W'y  cawn't  I ?  Oh,  ever  since 
it  started  the  thought's  bin  beatin'  in  me,  d'y  an* 
night,  "Git  aat  there.  Y've  got  t'  git  aat  there!" 
(Pleading)  Y'  might  tike  a  chance  with  me.  I'd 
be  no  trouble.  Cheer  'em  up,  too !  I  can  sing  a  bit. 
Dance,  too ! 

DR.  HANWELL.     (Smiling)    Oh? 

ANNIE.  Afore  it  all  started  I  used  t*  be  quite 
cheerful.  It's  only  since  it  broke  aat  I'm  like  this. 
"  'Aunted  Annie"  they  calls  me  naow.  'Cos  I'm 
alwa's  seein'  things.  Aat  there  I'd  be  as  'appy  as 
anythin' — reely  I  would!  Make  'em  laugh,  I  would. 
See  if  I  wouldn't!  (With  a  little  hopeless  effort  to 
smile;  but  her  anxiety  is  so  great  she  almost  sobs.) 
I'd  keep  their  minds  orf  theirselves.  I  know  two 
funny  stories.  D'yer  ever  'ear  that  one  abaat  the 
feller  as  was  standing  up  against  a  lamp-post  and  a 
hofficer  comes  along  and  says :  "  'Ere,  young  feller 
— me — lad,  w'y  ain't  yer  at  the  front?  W'y  ain't 
yer  fighting  for  yer  country  ?  W'y  don't  yer  enlist  ?" 
And  the  feller  says  to  the  hofficer,  'e  says:  "Wot? 
Bli'  me!  Me  enlist?  Wiv  this  bloomin'  war  goin' 
'on?" 

(DR.  HANWELL  laughs.) 

ANNIE.  And,  d'yer  'ear  the  one  abaat  the  soldier 
in  the  'orspital  ?  'E  says  to  the  nurse :  "Wot's  this 


OUT  THERE  43 

'ere  on  my  fore'ead?"  An'  the  nurse  says:  "A 
vinegar  bandage."  And  'e  says :  "Bli'me !  Vinegar ! 
Wot's  this  'ere  on  my  chest  ?"  An'  the  nurse  says : 
"A  mustard  plarster."  An'  'e  says :  "Bli'me !  Mus- 
tard! Wot's  this  'ere  on  my  feet?"  An'  the  nurse 
says :  "  'Ot  salt  bag."  An'  'e  says :  "Bli'me !  Vine- 
gar! Mustard!  Salt!  W'y  not  pour  some  pepper 
in  me  'ear-'ole  and  make  me  a  bloomin'  cruet?" 

(DR.  HAN  WELL  laughs,  and  moves  toward  door.) 

ANNIE.  Ain't  they  funny  enough  ?  (With  a  great 
cry.)  Oh,  Doctor,  I  want  t'  do  somethin' (Beat- 
ing her  hands  helplessly.  Her  voice  fails  her.  She 
sits  on  couch,  covers  her  eyes.)  If  ye'd  only  tike 
me!  If  y'd  only  do  it! 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder) 
Why  not  get  into  one  of  the  munition  factories? 
You'd  be  helping  there.  I'm  sure  I  could  do  some- 
thing like  that  for  you. 

ANNIE.  (Blazing  up  fiercely.  Forgetting  her 
tears.)  Them  as  cawn't  feel  nothin'  can  do  that. 
But  I  want  t'  be  near  the  fellers  who's  fightin'  f'r 
us.  I'm  not  afraid  o'  blood.  Y'  know  that.  Mother 
bled.  I  didn'  mind  it.  I  bound  'er  up.  An'  you 
standin'  by.  An'  she  used  t'  moan  all  night,  an  I'd 
soothe  'er  an'  mike  'er  sleep.  That's  w'at  I  want  t' 
do  aat  there.  (Passionately.)  Oh,  cawn't  y'  see  ?  I 
want  t'  git  at  the  real  'eart  of  it  all.  I'm  alwa's 
thinkin'  of  it — all  d'y,  an'  'alf  the  night.  Wen  I  do 
sleep  I  dream  of  it.  I'm  a  real  nurse  every  night 
for  a  bit.  An'  then  I  wikes  up  t'  this.  (All  the 
time  searching  her  brain  for  fresh  reasons  why  he 
should  take  her.)  An'  see !  Wait  a  minit !  I  mus' 
show  y' !  This  is  'ow  much  I've  bin  thinkin'  of  it ! 
(As  she  speaks  she  hurriedly  opens  the  drawer  and 
takes  out  the  work  over  which  she  fought  with  her 
sister.  She  takes  it  over  to  the  DOCTOR,  opens  it  out, 


44  OUT  THERE 

and  discloses  a  nurse's  dress,  made  of  cheap  material, 
and  a  cap.  She  looks  up  expectantly  at  the  DOCTOR, 
her  eyes  shining,  her  whole  manner  expectant,  as 
though  they  were  triumphant  provf  of  her  right  to 
go  "out  there.")  Made  'em  meself,  aat  o'  w'at  I 
sived.  Got  a  cap,  too.  wiv  a  crorse  on  it !  (Shows 
cap.  Pause.)  Are  they — all  right?  (Pause.)  Eh? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Very  embarrassed)  They're 
very  charming — 

ANNIE.  (Quickly)  Oh,  no,  they're  not.  Not  'alf 
good  enough!  I  know  that.  But  they're  the  best  I 
could  manage.  They'd  do  at  first — wouldn't  they? 
(Anxiously.)  Till  I  could  get  real  ones? 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  couldn't  wear  them  until 
you'd  passed  the  probationary  period. 

ANNIE.    (Hopelessly  and  dejectedly)    Couldn't  I? 

DR.  HANWELL.  No.  It's  a  uniform,  the  same  as 
a  soldier's.  And  a  very  honourable  one. 

ANNIE.     I'd  do  nothin'  t'  shime  it. 

DR.  HANWELL.     I'm  sure  of  that. 

ANNIE.  Cawn't  y' take  me  ?  (Almost  in  despair.) 
Or  send  me?  Or  'elp  me  t'  go?  Some'ow? 

DR.  HANWELL.     I'll  see  what  can  be  done. 

ANNIE.     (Jumping  at  the  chance)     Oh,  Doctor — 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Quickly)  I  can't  promise  any- 
think  will,  come  of  it.  You've  got  the  right  stuff, 
my  girl !  (Smiling.)  The  women  behind  us  are  go- 
ing to  win  for  us. 

ANNIE.  I'll  win  f'r  y'.  I  mean  as  'ow  I'll  'elp 
ye  ter  win.  Y'  will  try? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Yes. 

ANNIE.     Soon? 

DR.  HANWELL.     It  will  have  to  be. 

ANNIE.  (Persevering)  D'  y'  think  y'  can  man- 
age it? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiling  at  her  perseverance) 
If  it  is  possible. 


OUT  THERE  45 

ANNIE.  (Just  touching  his  arm)  Y'  don't  know 
w'at  it'd  mean  t'  me. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Picks  up  the  cap  from  the  table, 
looks  at  it,  then  at  ANNIE.)  I  think  I  do.  (Mov- 
ing to  door,  and  catching  sight  of  poster.)  Hello! 

ANNIE,  (t^urriedly)  I  put  that  there.  Would 
y'  mind  speakin'  t'  my  brother? 

DR.  HANWELL.     What  about? 

ANNIE.     Abaat  that.    'E  ought  t'  be  aat  there. 

DR.  HANWELL.    He  certainly  ought  to  be. 

ANNIE.     'E  won't  go. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Why  not? 

ANNIE.  I  dunno.  Oh,  it  ain't  becos  'e's  fright- 
ened. 'E  ain't  afraid  of  no  one.  I  think  it's  becos 
o'  father  lyin'  there  till  'e  died.  'E's  kind  o'  bitter 
abaat  that. 

DR.  HANWELL.     The  fortune  of  war. 

ANNIE.  Yaas.  Would  y'  mind  speakin'  t'  him? 
My  feller's  gorn.  Y'  know — Dick.  My  sweet'eart. 
Y've  seen  'im  'ere. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Oh,  yes.     Has  he,  indeed? 

ANNIE.  Yaas.  'E  didn'  want  to  very  much,  but 
I  said  I  wouldn't  speak  to  'im  ag'in  if  'e  didn't.  So 
'e  went.  Seemed  quite  'appy,  too,  once  'e'd  made 
up  'is  mind.  That's  all  it  is — jus'  makin'  up  y'r 
mind.  Then  noth'n'  seems  'ard.  -(DOCTOR  laughs 
quietly.)  See  'ow  'appy  you  are  t'  be  goin'  aat!  So 
w'd  /  be.  It  ain't  enough  makin'  other  people  do 
things.  The  praad  part  is  doin'  'em  y'rself. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Quite  right.  You  ought  to  be  a 
recruiting  sergeant. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  I'd  'ate  meself  all  me  life  if  anythin' 
'appened  t'  the  country  an'  I'd  done  nothin'.  It'd 
seem  as  though  it  was  my  fault.  'Course  I  know 
nothin'  will.  We'll  win.  We  got  to  win.  Bli'  me! 
An'  w'en  we  do,  'ow  rotten  it'll  be  f'r  'Erb  and  the 
kind  that  go  t'  the  street  corner  w'en  the  fellers 
come  back  an'  scream,  "We  won !"  w'en  they've  done 


46  OUT  THERE 

nothin'  f'r  it.  An'  w'en  they've  done  shoutin'  they'll 
skulk  back  t'  their  little  dark  beds  an'  cry  their  eyes 
aat  'cos  they  shirked  an'  never  took  the  chance  they 
'ad  t'  mike  theirselves  great.  Muck!  That's  w'at 
they'll  feel.  Just  muck!  (The  street  door  slams.) 

(The  door  opens,  and  ANNIE'S  mother  enters,  a  little 
unsteadily.  She  is  a  dark,  untidy,  middle-aged 
woman,  shabbily  dressed,  her  bonnet  somewhat 
askew,  a  large  shawl  wrapped  around  her,  in- 
side of  which  she  is  firmly  holding  something. 
She  is  familiarly  known  as  "Ol'  Velvet,"  be- 
cause of  her  partiality  to  the  beverage  known 
by  that  nickname — gin.) 

"VELVET."    (To  ANNIE)     There  y'  are,  dearie. 

ANNIE.  (Goes  to  her  and  warns  her  that  the  DOC- 
TOR is  in  the  room)  The  Doctor! 

"VELVET."  (When  she  sees  the  DOCTOR,  she 
draws  herself  up  in  intoxicated  dignity.)  An'  the 
Doctor.  'Onoured,  I'm  sure,  sir. 

ANNIE.     Were  'ave  y'  bin.  Mother? 

"VELVET."     Not  afore  the  Doctor,  darlin'. 

ANNIE.     I  told  'im. 

"VELVET."  Did  ye  ?  Hindeed !  Most  himproper 
of  ye,  I'm  sure. 

ANNIE.     Was  it  the  "Mother  Red  Cap"  ? 

"VELVET/'  If  y'  must  know,  it  was.  An'  w'at 
of  it? 

ANNIE.  O',  nothing!  (Takes  her  and  tries  to 
help  her.) 

("VELVET"  very  indignantly  removes  ANNIE'S  hand 
from  her  arm  and  walks  very  unsteadily  to 
couch.) 

ANNIE.  (Seating  her  on  couch.)  Gi'e  me  y'r 
shawl.  (Trying  to  take  it.) 


6UT  THERE  47 

"VELVET."     No,  thank  ye. 

ANNIE.    W'y  not? 

"VELVET/'  I'm  chilly,  dearie.  (Beams  at  DOC- 
TOR. Winks  at  ANNIE,  indicating  the  DOCTOR,  and 
also  the  something  hidden  under  the  shawl.) 

ANNIE.     Ti£e  orf  y'r  bonnit. 

"VELVET."  Not  before  the  Doctor.  Ain't  you 
ashamed  ? 

ANNIE.     Well,  take  orf  yer  gloves. 

"VELVET/'     Not  before  the  Doctor. 

ANNIE.  Just  one.  (She  pulls  off  the  glove  by  the 
fingers.)  Naa,  the  other  one.  (She  pulls  it  off.) 
Wat's  this?  (Touching  the  hidden  something  under 
the  shawl.) 

"VELVET."  Now,  never  you  mind.  (Whispers) 
Wait  till  'e's  gorn.  Wat's  that  y're  'oldin',  dearie? 

ANNIE.  Oh,  a  few  things.  (To  DR.  HANWELL,) 
Can  y'  wait  a  minnit  more? 

DR.  HAN  WELL.     (Smiling)    Well,  perhaps  five. 

ANNIE.     Will  y'  speak  to  'Erb? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Very  well. 

"VELVET."  W'at  are  y'  w'isperin'  abaat?  (AN- 
NIE goes  to  door  of  inner  room.)  Ah  !  (Shakes  her 
finger  at  the  DOCTOR.^  Secrets,  eh?  You're  the  art- 
ful ones — you  doctors!  (Coughs  genteelly  behind 
her  hand  and  winks  at  him.) 

ANNIE.    (Speaking  through  the  open  door)   'Erb ! 

'ERB.    (In  inner  room)     W'at? 

ANNIE.     Come  in  'ere,  will  ye? 

'ERB.    W'at  for? 

ANNIE.     Doctor  wants  t'  talk  t'  y'. 

'ERB.     Oh,  all  right ! 

ANNIE.  (Turning  away  from  door,  looks  at  her 
mother.  Crosses  to  the  DOCTOR. )  Make  'im  go. 
(Passes  into  the  other  room.) 

"VELVET."  (Winks  at  the  DOCTOR  and  indicates 
ANNIE.  J  Saucy — ain't  she? 

DR.  HANWELL.    And  how  are  you  feeling  today  ? 


48  OUT  THERE 

"VELVET."  I  don'  know,  Doctor.  Got  a  kind  o' 
sinkin'. 

DR.  HAN  WELL.     Where? 

"VELVET."     All-overish. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Take  a  deep  breath.  (Bending 
down.)  Now  breathe  heavily  outwards.  (She  does. 
He  sniffs.)  Is  it — gin? 

"VELVET."  W'y,  'ow  did  y'  guess?  You  know 
everythin',  you  doctors.  It  don't  'urt  me.  Does  me 
'eart  good. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Does  it? 

"VELVET."  Oh,  a  lot  o'  good.  That's  w'y  they 
calls  it  "Velvet."  So  sorft  an'  nice. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Takes  her  wrist  and  looks  at  his 
watch.  "VELVET"  beams  at  DOCTOR  as  he  touches 
her  wrist.)  Your  head's  all  nicely  healed  up  ? 

"VELVET."  O«fside,  sir,  it's  all  right.  But  mside, 
sir !  Oh,  my  word !  Seems  to  all  wobble  abaat. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Does  it,  indeed? 

"VELVET/'  Yaas,  sir.  All  jumpin'-like,  down  at 
the  back. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Ah!  (Closing  the  watch  and  re- 
leasing her  wrist.) 

"VELVET."     Is  me  pulse  all  right  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Splendid!  This  is  the  last  time 
I  shall  see  you. 

"VELVET."  Oh,  but  I  ain't  well  yet.  Not  really 
well.  Besides,  if  I  was,  I  likes  y'  comin'  round. 
(Looking  coyly  at  him.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  can  drop  in  at  the  hospital 
and  see  Dr.  Barnett.  He  takes  my  place.  I'm  go- 
ing away. 

"VELVET."  Are  ye,  dearie? — I  mean,  Doctor?  I 
beg  y'r  pardon,  I'm  sure.  Careless  of  me.  Coin' 
aw'y,  eh?  Got  a  better  job? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Get  all  the  air  you  can.  And — 
not  quite  so  much  "velvet." 

"VELVET."    Oh,  a  drop  now  and  then  keeps  the 


OUT  THERE  49 

blues  aw'y.     An'  the  'eartburn.    I  git  that  somethin' 
chronic. 

DR.  HANWELL.  A  glass  of  plain  hot  water  would 
stop  them  both. 

"VELVET."  Wat  I  tike  wouldn't  'urt  a  fly — reely 
it  wouldn't,  dea — Doctor. 

DR.  HANWELL.    It's  hurting  you. 

"VELVET/'  Ah!  I  see.  /  know.  You  ain'  got 
no  sympathy  with  the  workin'  clarses.  Y're  all  alike. 
Want  t'  tike  aw'y  their  little  drop  o'  comfort.  An* 
all  the  trouble  I've  'ad !  No  one  knows  w'at  we  'ave 
to  put  up  with  from  our  families. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  haven't  much  to  complain  of. 

"VELVET/'  Oh!  'Ark  at  'im!  W'at  oh!  I've 
slaved  all  me  life  since  me  pore  'usband  got  took 
orf  a-bringin'  of  'em  up — an'  w'at  'ave  I  got?  This 
'ole  t'  live  in.  Look  at  it!  Gives  me  the  pip  t' 
come  into  it.  (With  great  dignity.)  I  come  of  car- 
riage-folk in  me  own  right,  I  do. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Oh! 

"VELVET."  An'  me  'usband  'ad  estates,  if  they 
'adn't  took  'em  from  !im.  You  know,  under-'and- 
like.  Ever  'ear  o'  the  'Udds  of  'Uddersfield  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.     No. 

VELVET.  Well,  that's  'im.  (Bitterly.)  My 
fem'ly !  It's  like  pullin'  teeth  gettin'  a  shillin'  aat  o' 
them.  That's  w'at  children  are  tod'y.  'Erb  picks 
up  a  bit  fightin'  an'  comes  home  with  a  fice  like  a 
bit  o'  beef.  'E  ought  t'  be  in  a  steady  job,  an'  lookin' 
after  me  proper. 

DR.  HANWELL.    He  ought  to  be  in  the  army. 

"VELVET."  Oh,  no,  'e  oughtn't.  Oh,  indeed  no! 
'E  'ates  walkin',  an'  the  food  wouldn't  suit  'im.  'E's 
got  t'  be  very  p'rtic'l'r  w'at  'e  eats  on  account  of  'is 
wind.  (Hiccoughs.)  'E  don't  tike  after  'is  pa  no- 
'ow.  More  like  me.  (Hiccoughs.)  Begging  yer 
pardon,  I'm  sure.  One  soldier's  enough  in  the  fem- 
'ly, an'  'im  took  orf  in  'is  prime.  'Erb  couldn't  stan' 


SO  OUT  THERE 

bein'  ordered  abaat.  Oh,  no  !  Don'  git  that  idea  in 
y'r  'ead.  'E's  small  use  t'  me,  but  w'at  'e  is  I  wants. 
I'd  git  nothin'  if  'e  went  avv'y  enjoyin'  'isself  aat 
there. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  ought  to  send  him  away. 

"VELVET."  Oh!  Oh!  There  goes  me  'eart! 
(Moistens  her  lips.)  Would  y'  mind  if  I  took  a 
little? 

DR.  HANWELL.    A  little  what  ? 

"VELVET/'  "Velvet,"  dear—  Doctor.  "Mother's 
ruin,"  they  calls  it.  May  I? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Try  some  hot  water. 

"VELVET."  'Ot  water?  Bli'  me!  Ain't  I  got 
trouble  enough?  You  are  cruel,  ain't  ye?  Just  a 
spoonful,  eh? 

DR.  HANWELL.    I  don't  prescribe  it. 

"VELVET."  I  knew  y'  wouldn't  tike  aw'y  a  pore 
woman's  stand-by.  (Taking  out  a  flat  gin  bottle 
from  under  her  shawl,  extracting  the  cork,  wiping 
her  lips,  and  holding  up  the  bottle  to  the  DOCTOR.) 
W'at  oh  !  (Drinks  it  long  and  steadily.) 

DR.  HANWELL.     Steady!     (Touches  her  arm.) 

"VELVET."  (Gasping  and  choking)  Very  weak! 
'Ardly  tiste  it!  (Starts  to  drink  again.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Takes  the  bottle  from  her  and 
puts  it  on  the  dresser)  That  will  do  for  the  pres- 
ent. 

"VELVET."  'Ave  it  y'r  own  w'y-  Me  'cart's  better 
awready. 

('ERB  comes  in,  his  face  shining  from  recent  wash- 
ing, followed  by  LIZZIE,  who  has  her  hat  on, 
and  wears  the  new  ribbon  round  her  neck.) 


'Ello,  Ma!     Guess  w'at  I've  brought  ye. 
(Picks  the  flask  off  the  dresser  and  holds  it  out  to 
her.) 
"VELVET."    W'at  is  it,  'Erb? 


OUT  THERE  51 

'ERB.    "W'ite  Sat V  ol'  dear! 

"VELVET/'    Naow  ain't  that  nice  of  ye? 

'ERB.  Strongest  they've  got.  It'll  ticlile  ye  up. 
(He  digs  her  in  the  ribs.  She  chokes  and  laughs.  Is 
about  to  take  bottle  from  'ERB  when  LIZZIE  snatches 
it  out  of  his  hand  and  places  it  on  dresser.) 

"VELVET/'  •{Laughing  stupidly  and  coughing) 
My  word !  Y're  pl'yful !  (She  slaps  his  face  with 
some  white  feathers  she  has  been  holding.) 

'ERB.    'Ere!     Wat's  this? 

"VELVET."    W'ite  fevvers,  dearie! 

*ERB.     For  me? 

"VELVET."     Naow.     Bought  'em  at  a  sale. 

'ERB.  (Relieved)  That's  all  right.  None  o'  thet 
"'Aunted  Annie"  stuff!  (He  goes  to  DOCTOR.,) 
Want  to  see  me  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Yes,  I  do. 

'ERB.    Wat  abaat? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Why  don't  you  enlist? 

'ERB.     'Cos  I  don'  want  to. 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  know  what  they'll  call  you 
if  you  don't? 

'ERB.  Not  to  my  fice,  they  won't !  If  they  do  I'll 
know  what  for,  now  then !  Be'ind  me  back  they  can 
s'y  w'at  they  like. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Why  give  them  the  chance  to  say 
it  anywhere? 

'ERB.    W'at  business  is  it  of  yours,  I  like  t'  know  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.  It  isn't  only  my  business.  It's 
everybody's. 

'ERB.     Well,  I'm  not  goin'.     See? 

DR.  HANWELL.  It's  young  men  like  you  will  force 
a  condition  that  has  never  existed  in  the  country  be- 
fore— conscription. 

'ERB.  All  right.  Let  it.  Then  I'll  know  the 
other  feller's  goin'.  Wy  should  I  put  meself  abaat 
w'en  the  next  street's  full  o'  fellers  same  as  me  ? 


52  OUT  THERE 

LIZZIE.  'Course  it  is.  Bigger'n  'Erb,  too.  They 
ought  t'  be  ashimed  o'  theirselves. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Show  them  the  example. 

'ERB.     Not  me! 

LIZZIE.     I  should  s'y  not !     The  idea ! 

"VELVET."  Wy,  Doctor,  w'atever  are  y'  askin' 
of  'im? 

'£RB.     Wat  abaat  y'rself  ?     Jus'  recruitin',  eh? 

DR.  HANWELL.  No,  I'm  going  out.  ('ERB  and 
LIZZIE  exchange  glances.)  We're  all  in  this  job,  old 
and  young,  rich  and  poor.  They'll  need  you.  (To 

'ERBj  And  you (To  LIZZIE,)  And  you.  (To 

"VELVET.") 

LIZZIE.  (Rather  afraid)  Wat?  Me?  An'  ma? 
Fat  lot  o'  good  w'd  be ! 

"VELVET."     I  should  s'y  so ! 

DR.  HANWELL.  More  good  than  you  think.  We'll 
need  every  woman  before  we're  finished.  But  for  a 
strong,  healthy  young  fellow  like  you  to  be  holding 
back 

'ERB.  (Angrily)  Look  'ere !  I've  'ad  abaat 
enough  o'  this ! 

"VELVET."  Don'  be  'arsh  with  the  Doctor,  dearie. 
'E's  a  nice  gen'leman.  But  'e  don'  understand  y' 
not  likin'  marchin'  any  more  'n  'e  can  understand  me 
wantin'  a  little  somethin'  t'  tike  aw'y  the  shivers. 

LIZZIE.  Wat's 'e  got  t' do  with  us,  any w'y?  Jus' 
becos  'e  patched  ma  up  with  plaster  w'en  she  got 
'erself  run  over  don'  give  'im  the  right  t'  come  'ere 
an'  tell  us  "w'at  for." 

DR.  HANWELL.  It's  a  pity  you're  not  more  like 
your  sister,  young  woman. 

LIZZIE.  Like  Annie  ?  Gawd  'elp  us !  Wat's  she 
doin',  I'd  like  t'  know? 

DR.  HANWELL.     The  wish  is  there. 

LIZZIE.  (Angrily)  Oh,  wish  me  foot!  She's 
very  ready  with  'er  tongue,  tellin'  others  w'at  t'  do. 
W'y  don'  she  do  somethin'  'erself? 


OUT  THERE  53 

*ERB.  Yaas.  That's  wot  I  say.  She's  sicked  'im 
on  t'  me.  She's  alwa's  barkin'  at  me.  "Will  y'  go 
aat  if  I  go?"  says  she.  Knows  bloomin'  well  they 
wouldn't  tike  a  thing  like  'er.  (To  DR.  HANWELL 
suddenly)  See  'ere.  You  git  'er  t'  go,  an'  bli'  me, 
I'll  'list  to-morrer. 

(The  faint  sound  of  a  band  and  the  tramping  of  feet 
is  heard  in  the  far  distance.  Drums  and  fifes 
play  "The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me"  DR.  HAN- 
WELL  quietly  picks  up  his  hat  and  gloves.  AN- 
NIE comes  in  dressed  in  her  cheap  nurse's  dress 
and  cap.  All  look  at  her  in  amazement.  LIZZIE 
and  'ERB  burst  out  laughing.  The  mother  be- 
gins to  cry.) 

*ERB.     Oh,  look  at  Nurse  Nightingale ! 
LIZZIE.      "  'Aunted    Annie"    with    her    cross    on 
crooked!     Oh,   strike  me!     You're  a   winner,    all 
right ! 

LIZZIE.     (Sings) 

"Tike  'em  orf ,  young  man ;  tike  'em  orf . 
My,  don't  he  look  a  guy ! 
I'd  tike  'em  orf  if  I  was  you, 
Was  everybody's  cry."  (Laughs  uproariously.) 

(The  DOCTOR  gives  LIZZIE  a  stern  look  which  stops 
her  laughing.  A  full  military  band  plays  "Hold 
Your  Hand  Out,  Naughty  Boy."  The  sound  of 
marching  grows  nearer  and  nearer.  DR.  HAN- 
WELL  takes  out  his  card-case,  extracts  a  card, 
writes  on  it,  and  goes  to  ANNIE. ) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Handing  the  card  to  ANNIE,) 
Take  this  to  the  address  I've  written,  and  tell  them 
what  you  told  me. 

ANNIE.     (Joyfully)     Oh,  will  they  tike  me? 

DR.  HANWELL.     I  think  they  will. 


54  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.    An'  will  they  send  me  aat  there? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Perhaps.  If  I  can  help  to  get  you 
there,  believe  me,  I  will. 

ANNIE.  (Crosses  to  'ERBj  If  I  do  get  aat  there, 
will  you  go  ?  ( The  sounds  are  now  quite  near.  Ex- 
citedly) Don't  that  mike  y'r  blood  run  an'  y'r  brain 
dance?  ('ERBB  turns  away  sullenly.)  So'diers!  (To 
DR.  HANWELL.J 

DR.  HANWELL.    They're  going  down  to  the  train. 

ANNIE.  I  want  to  see  them.  I'm  goin'  t'  see 
them. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Not  like  that.  (Pointing  to  the 
nurse's  dress.) 

ANNIE.  I'll  cover  it  up.  (Takes  off  her  nurse's 
cap  and  puts  it  in  her  bosom,  puts  on  hat,  and  covers 
her  dress  with  a  coat.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (To  "VELVET")  Good-bye. 
Whenever  you  don't  feel  quite  up  to  the  mark,  look 
in  at  the  hospital — Dr.  Barnett. 

"VELVET/'  Much  obliged,  I'm  sure,  sir.  'Ave  a 
drop  of  anythin'  before  y'  go? 

DR.  HANWELL.  No,  thank  you.  (Nods  to  Liz- 
ZIE.J  Good-bye.  (Is  about  to  speak  to  '£RB,  who 
turns  his  back  to  him,  thinks  a  moment,  turns  to 
ANNIEJ 

ANNIE.    Awright? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Yes.  Come  along.  I'll  drive  you 
down.  (Opens  door,  goes  through  passage,  and 
opens  door  to  the  street,  and  waits  for  ANNIE. ) 

ANNIE.     Good-bye,  Liz! 

LIZZIE.     Good  riddance! 

ANNIE.     Good-bye,  Ma! 

"VELVET."    Were  're  y'  goin',  dearie? 

ANNIE.    I'm  goin'  aat  t*  'elp. 

LIZZIE.  D*  y*  s'pose  they'll  let  you  be  a  nurse? 
You? 

ANNIE.    I'm  goin'  to  try. 


OUT  THERE  55 

"VELVET/*  (Beginning  to  cry)  Y're  goin*  t*  leave 
me? 

ANNIE.  Yaas,  Mother!  I  ain't  bin  much  use 
'ere.  I  may  be  there.  'Erb,  if  I  do  go,  will  you  go? 

'ERB.    Wat  if  I  don't? 

ANNIE.     Y'll  'urt  me. 

'ERB.     Well,  be  'urt. 

ANNIE.  {Looks  at  him  for  a  moment;  then  sud- 
denly brightens  up.)  So  long,  Ma!  Take  care  o' 
yerself.  (She  marches  out  to  the  time  of  the  music. 
Closes  outer  door  and  joins  DOCTOR.  They  disappear 
together.  Suddenly  the  band  breaks  from  marking 
time  on  the  drums  into  "Tipperary.") 

LIZZIE.  (Moves  to  the  window  and  shouts  after 
ANNIEJ  Gawd  'elp  them  as  you  nurse! 

'ERB.    (Growls)    Let  'er  alone,  cawn't  ye? 

LIZZIE.     'Ark  at  youf 

'ERB.     Shut  up!     I  tell  ye. 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  shut  up  y'rself.  (Laughs.)  Old 
"  'Aunted  Annie's"  fancyin'  'erself  a  nurse!  Make 
a  cat  laugh! 

'ERB.  (Threateningly)  Stop  that,  will  ye  ?  She's 
worth  a  dozen  o'  you. 

LIZZIE.     Oh,  is  that  so? 

'ERB.  Yaas,  it  is.  An'  of  me,  too.  So  keep  y'r 
trap  shut.  (He  stands  sullenly,  his  eyes  flashing 
restlessly  all  through  the  opening  movement  of  the 
march.  Then  the  chorus  is  played  as  they  march 
past  quite  near.  When  they  start  it  for  the'  second 
time  he  picks  up  his  cap  from  the  dresser  and  goes 
to  his  mother.)  Gi'e  us  a  kiss.  Ma. 

"VELVET"    Wat  for, 'Erb? 

*ERB,     I'm  orf. 

"VELVET."    Orf,  dearie?    Were? 

*ERB.  Aat  there.  (Pecks  at  her  cheek,  hurries 
to  the  door;  as  he  opens  it  he  calls  over  his  shoulder 
to  LIZZIE)  So  long,  spiteful !  (Bangs  the  door 
behind  him,  then  bangs  the  outer  door.) 


56  OUT   THERE 

("VELVET"  cries  and  sways  backward  and  forward.) 

"VELVET."  I  knew  as  somethin'  was  goin'  to  'ap- 
pen.  I  bin  that  depressed  all  d'y. 

LIZZIE.  Never  mind,  Ma.  Y've  still  got  me. 
(Takes  up  the  flask  '£RB  brought  in.)  An'  this. 
(Pours  out  some  into  a  glass.) 

"VELVET."  (Weeping)  'Erb  give  it  to  me  with 
'is  last  breath.  I'll  never  see  'im  no  more. 

LIZZIE.  Not  much  lorse  to  any  one.  'Ere  y'  go! 
(Hands  her  the  glass.  Watches  her  drink.) 

("VELVET"  wipes  her  lips.) 

LIZZIE.     (Sings  as  she  corks  the  bottle) 
"I  believe  in  'avin'  it  if  y'  fancy  it. 
'Cos  a  little  of  w'at  y'  fancy  does  y'  good." 

(The  marching  of  the  men  and  the  sound  of  the 
band  begin  to  fade  away.) 

CURTAIN 
(END  OF  PART  I) 


PART    II 
DEVOTION 


"THE  ORANGE  WALK' 

THE  SURGEON 

THE  "IRISH  MAN" 

THE  COCKNEY 

THE  SCOTCHMAN 

THE  NEW  ZEALANDER 

GRIFFIN 

TERENCE 

A  NEWCOMER 

ANOTHER  NEWCOMER 

GABRIELLE 

THE  HELP 


DEVOTION 

The  scene  represents  a  portion  of  a  ward  in  a  hos- 
pital in  France.  There  are  seven  cots.  In  a 
wheeling  chair  R.,  below  cot  Six,  stretched  full 
length,  is  a  young  boy  known  as  "PAT."  He 
has  been  shot  through  the  hips,  and  is  paralysed. 
His  eyes  are  closed.  There  is  an  orange  lying 
on  his  newly-made  bed.  Next  to  him  on  cot 
Five  is  a  young  COCKNEY,  about  five  feet  eight 
inches,  very  thin,  his  left  hand  bound  up,  his 
right  leg  almost  disabled.  He  is  sucking  an 
orange.  Next  to  him  on  cot  Four  is  a  big,  six- 
foot  CANADIAN,  with  his  head  bandaged.  He 
has  a  deep  voice,  a  gruff  manner,  and  is  lying 
on  the  outside  of  the  bedcovers,  methodically 
peeling  an  orange.  Next  to  him  in  cot  Three  is 
a  SCOTCHMAN,  thirty-six  years  old,  about  five 
feet  ten  inches  in  height,  slowly  and  methodically 
gathering  his  few  belongings  together.  He  is 
sufficiently  well  to  be  sent  farther  on.  He  has 
an  orange  all  opened  out  in  flakes,  the  peel  lying 
beside  it,  and  is  eating  it,  a  flake  at  a  time,  as 
he  dresses.  Next  to  him,  No.  Two,  is  an  empty 
cot.  and  next  to  that,  in  cot  One,  a  huge  NEW 
ZEALANDER,  about  six  feet  two  inches,  is  also 
lying  on  the  coverlet.  He  has  a  support  run- 
ning from  his  right  foot  up  to  his  shoulder.  He 
is  throwing  into  the  air  and  catching  on  its  re- 
turn an  orange.  He  accompanies  each  journey 
and  return  of  the  fruit  with  an  old  circus  tune. 
Each  man  is  occupied  with  his  own  thoughtsf 
61 


62  OUT  THERE 

and  is  not  taking  any  notice  of  his  companions. 
After  some  tittle  time  the  COCKNEY  begins  to 
play  a  mouth-organ.  The  SCOTCHMAN  hums 
an  air  out  of  tune.  Voices  are  heard  quite  near. 

DOCTOR.  (In  the  near  distance)  We'll  take  this 
ward  next. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  Look  out !  Here's  the  doctor ! 
(He  gets  out  of  his  cot.) 

(Enter  ORDERLY.,) 
ORDERLY.     Carry  on!    Ward!     'Shun! 

(NEW  ZEALANDER,  SCOTCHMAN,  CANADIAN,  and 
COCKNEY  all  come  to  attention.  "PAT"  remains 
motionless — his  eyes  closed.  DR.  HANWELL,  in 
khaki  uniform,  enters  with  NURSE  GABRIELLE, 
a  very  serious-minded,  aristocratic  young  nurse. 
The  DOCTOR  carries  a  small  notebook  and  pen- 
cil. The  NURSE  has  similar  ones.  Hanging  on 
the  foot  of  each  bed  is  a  day-chart  showing  the 
immediate  condition  of  the  man.  The  NURSE 
shows  DR.  HANWELL  the  NEW  ZEALANDER'S 
chart.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiling  cheerfully  at  the  NEW 
ZEALANDER,)  How  are  you  getting  on  ? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    Very  well,  thank-ye. 

DR.  HANWELL.    How  is  the  shoulder  ? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    All  right,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Quite  comfortable  ? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    Yes,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Ache  much? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    Now  an'  agen.     Not  much. 

DR.  HANWELL.  We'll  have  another  look  at  it  this 
afternoon. 


OUT  THERE  63 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (With  a  grimace  to  NURSED 
Won't  like  that  much,  will  I? 

NURSE.     It's  the  only  time  he  ever  complains. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (Restlessly)  It's  all  right.  I 
hate  havin'  it  pulled  about. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  won't  feel  it. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  You  always  say  that.  I'd 
rather  ye  let  it  alone.  It's  goin*  on  all  right. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Don't  think  about  it.  (Looking 
at.  his  notes.  '  To  NURSED  At  three.  (The  NURSE 
makes  a  note  and  goes  to  foot  of  cot  Four,  the  CAN- 
ADIAN'S. )  Orange  day!  (Sniffing  and  smiling.) 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    Yes,  sir.     Smells  like  a  circus. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Gives  the  man  a  ple^ant  nod, 
and  passes  on  to  the  SCOTCHMAN.,)  Moving  you  on, 
eh? 

SCOTCHMAN.    I'll  be  ready. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Glad  to  get  away? 

SCOTCHMAN.  So  long  as  I'm  gettin'  reet  agen. 
(Touches  his  shoulder.) 

DR.  HANWELL.    You've  done  wonderfully. 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Looks  at  him  a  moment,  beckons 
him,  and  bends  down  and  says  right  into  his  ear) 
Will  they  send  me  back,  Doctor? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Why?    Do  you  want  to  go? 

SCOTCHMAN.  Aye.  I'd  like  anither  crack  at 
them. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You'll  get  your  wish. 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Grimly)  That's  a'  reet.  There's 
na  hame  any  more. 

DR.  HANWELL.    No? 

SCOTCHMAN.  Me  twa  lads  are  gone.  I  want  to 
stay  oot  here  to  the  finish.  Ye  ken  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Nods  understandingly,  then 
shakes  hands)  Good  luck ! 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Gripping  his  hand)  Thank  ye, 
Doctor!  Guid  luck  ta  ye!  (The  NURSE  smiles  at 
the  SCOTCHMAN.  He  touches  his  forehead  to  her. 


64  OUT  THERE 

The  DOCTOR  turns  to  NURSE.  She  shows  him  CAN- 
ADIAN'S chart  and  replaces  it  on  foot  of  bed.) 

DR.  HAN  WELL.    Well,  my  man? 

CANADIAN.  (Looking  at  the  DOCTOR  apprehen- 
sively, and  speaking  in  a  gruff,  bass  voice)  Morn- 
in',  Doctor! 

DR.  HAN  WELL.    And  how  are  you? 

CANADIAN.  (Nodding  toward  the  SCOTCHMAN) 
Same  as  him. 

DR.  HAN  WELL.     How's  that? 

CANADIAN.     I'm  sick  of  lying  about  here. 

DR.  HANWLLL.  It's  all  in  the  day.  You  did  your 
share. 

CANA^AN.  Did?  I'm  not  half  through  yet.  Not 
half. 

DR.  HANWELL.    That's  the  spirit. 

CANADIAN.  (With  a  grim  smile)  I  want  to  get 
back  to  the  Knickerbocker  Club  and  the  Times 
Square,  and  the  "Jinks." 

DR.  HANWELL.    Where? 

CANADIAN.    "Out  there." 

DR.  HANWELL.  You're  thinking  of  New  York 
surely  ? 

CANADIAN.  (Eagerly)  We've  got  'em  "Out  there" 
too. 

DR.  HANWELL.    (Smiling)    Have  you? 

CANADIAN.  Sure!  We  get  our  mail  at  the  Knick- 
erbocker— ye  get  there  by  the  Subway  to  Times 
Square — ye  crawl  underground.  The  Knickerbock- 
er's a  dug-out,  and  we  have  our  sing-songs  at  the 
"Jinks." 

DR.  HANWELL.     (Laughing)    Do  you,  really? 

CANADIAN.  Sure!  We  have  a  juggler,  used  to 
play  Hammerstein's,  can  keep  twelve  plates  goin*  at 
the  same  time. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Quite  interested  and  amused) 
Fancy  that! 

CANADIAN.    Sure!    An'  a  couple  o'  comic  sing- 


OUT  THERE  65 

ers.  Real  class  they  are.  (Nods  toward  the  SCOTCH- 
MANj  He'd  kind  o'  like  one  of  'em.  Sings  all 
Harry  Lauder's. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Well,  well! 

CANADIAN.  Sure!  An'  we've  a  soprano  from 
California. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Soprano? 

CANADIAN.  Fact!  He  could  take  a  top  "C"  with 
Caruso.  Ye  should  hear  him  in  "My  Little  Wet 
Home  in  the  Trench."  (Sings) 

"In  my  little  wet  home  in  the  trench, 

Where  the  rain  drops  continually  drench." 
It's  a  little  high  for  me.  but  he's  real  class !    A  pip- 
pin! 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  must  have  quite  a  good  time. 

CANADIAN.  You  bet  yer  life  we  do.  (Regret- 
fully) I  wish  I  was  back.  Got  a  glee-party,  too. 
I'm  bass.  (Sings) 

"I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I, 
And  nobody  cares  for  me !" 

We  sang  carols  to  the  Boches  last  Christmas.  (Sighs.) 
And  here  I  am,  out  of  it  all  because  I've  got  a  head- 
ache! 

DR.  HANWELL.  With  the  piece  of  shrapnel  you 
got  you're  lucky  to  be  able  to  talk  about  it  at  all. 

CANADIAN.  It  was  a  piece,  wasn't  it?  (Takes 
from  under  his  pillow  a  large,  sinister-looking, 
jagged  piece  of  shrapnel.)  My  helmet  got  most  of 
it.  (Looks  up  at  helmet  hanging  above  him  with  a 
large  hole  in  it.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  Keep  on  as  you've  been  going, 
and  you'll  soon  be  enjoying  all  the  comforts  of  the 
Knickerbocker  again. 

CANADIAN.  (Regretfully)  We  get  a  cocktail 
every  afternoon  at  five.  I  mix  'em — when  I  get 
the  chance.  Old-fashioned — Bushmills.  I  wish  I 
could  have  one  now.  Can't  I  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.    Oh,  no,  no. 


66  OUT  THERE 

CANADIAN.  Well,  they'll  have  one  today — if 
they're  not  busy.  (Sighs)  And  here  I  am,  out  of 
it  all. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (To  the  NURSE,  who  makes  a 
note)  We'll  look  at  it  again  this  afternoon. 

CANADIAN.    (Irritably)    Oh,  it'll  be  all  right. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Humouring  him)  Of  course  it 
will. 

CANADIAN.  Take  a  lot  more'n  that  to  do  me. 
I'll  have  another  go  at  them  yet.  Mark  me ! 

DR.  HANWELL.     I'm  sure  you  will.     Good-bye. 

CANADIAN.     Good-bye,  sir.    I  like  talking  to  you. 

DR.  HANWELL.  That's  right!  (The  NURSE  is 
waiting  at  foot  of  COCKNEY'S  cot.  No.  Five.  Shows 
chart  to  DOCTOR. )  Well,  my  lad? 

COCKNEY.     Mornin',  sir! 

DR.  HANWELL.     Nice  and  comfortable? 

COCKNEY.     Cawn't  complain! 

DR.  HANWELL.    How's  the  leg? 

COCKNEY.  Don*  min'  thet  so  much.  I  can  'op 
abaout  on  thet.  (Touches  his  left  hand.)  It's  this 
'ere  wot  gives  me  the  pip. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Sympathetically)  Oh?  Does  it 
hurt? 

COCKNEY.  Don'  min'  thet  so  much.  But,  y'  see, 
I'm  left-anded.  You  know !  I  always  cop  'em  wit' 
the  left. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Cop  whom? 

COCKNEY.     You  know !    In  a  fight. 

DR.  HANWELL.    I  see. 

COCKNEY.  Shawn't  be  much  good  wi'  the  gloves 
no  more,  will  I  ?  You  know !  In  the  ring  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that. 

COCKNEY.  I  would.  You  know!  Cawn't  close 
it.  (Looking  at  the  bandaged  hand.)  'Tain't  much 
use  inside  a  glove  if  y'  cawn't  close  it,  is  it?  You 
know! 


OUT  THERE  67 

DR.  HANWELL.  It's  a  clean  wound.  It  may  take 
time.  But  it  will  heal  up. 

COCKNEY.  (Insisting)  Yaas,  but  I  cawn't  close 
it!  I'm  done  as  a  fighter.  Not'alf!  Got  t' handle 
wood  the  rest  o'  me  life.  You  know! 

DR.  HANWELL.    What  do  you  do? 

COCKNEY.     Box-maiker.     You  know! 

DR.  HANWELL.    Where  do  you  live? 

COCKNEY.     Poplar — born  an'  bred. 

DR.  HANWELL.    How  old  are  you  ? 

COCKNEY.    Twen'y-two. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Been  out  here  long? 

COCKNEY.  Ever  since  it  started.  You  know! 
Mons ! 

DR.  HANWELL.    Really? 

COCKNEY.  Yaas.  Not  many  of  us  left  w'at 
started.  You  know!  We  got  copped  good  an* 
plenty.  Bad  luck!  You  know!  Naa  take  me — it 
come  my  turn  t'  be  a  marker.  You  know !  Puts  a 
light  coat  on  an'  yer  points  'em  aat.  'E  alwa's  gits 
'it.  I  got  'it.  You  know !  Got  'it  twice.  'Ere,  an* 
'ere.  (Touches  his  hand  and  his  leg.)  Never  felt 
nothin'.  You  know!  Jes'  flopped  daan.  My  kep- 
tin  come  a-running  along.  'E  sees  me,  an'  'e  calls 
aat,  "'Ello!"  'e  says.  "Y've  got  'it,"  'e  says. 
"Yaas,"  says  I.  "Good  job,  too!"  says  'e.  "Ha! 
ha !"  tryin'  t'  laugh.  "Y'  bin  aat  'ere  long  enough," 
'e  says.  "Time  y'  went  'ome."  Nice  feller!  You 
know!  'E  was  only  jokin'. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Of  course! 

COCKNEY.  Got  'is  that  d'y.  (Reflectively)  Nice 
feller! 

DR.  HANWELL.     Was  he  killed? 

COCKNEY.  Yaas.  'E  needn't  'a'  bin.  You  know ! 
alwa's  runnin'  abaat  with  'is  'ead  up.  Nice  feller! 
Oh,  well !  It's  all  in  a  life !  You  know ! 

DR.  HANWELL.  Yes.  (To  NURSE )  At  three! 
Good-bye,  my  lad! 


68  OUT  THERE 

(The  NURSE  takes  up  PAT'S  chart  and  waits  at  foot 
of  cot  Six  for  DOCTOR.) 

COCKNEY.  Good-bye,  sir!  Think  I'll  ever  fight 
ag'in  ?  You  know ! 

DR.  HANWELL.  I'll  make  a  thorough  examina- 
tion this  afternoon. 

COCKNEY.  'Fraid  not!  Cawn't  close  it.  You 
know! 

DR.  HANWELL.  There's  always  a  chance.  Good- 
bye. (Nods  genially  to  him,  goes  to  foot  of  PAT'S 
cot  and  reads  the  chart.  NURSE  replaces  chart,  goes 
to  R.  of  PAT,  and  shakes  him.  PAT  opens  his  eyes, 
and  looks  at  the  DOCTOR  sullenly.) 

DR.  HANWELL.    And  how  are  you? 

PAT.     I  don't  know  how  I  am. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Do  you  sleep  well  ? 

PAT.     I  do  not. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Ah!     Does  it  bother  you  much? 

PAT.     It  does. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Does  it  pain  you  ? 

PAT.     I  can't  use  it. 

DR.  HANWELL.  That's  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
is  it? 

PAT.     It  is  not. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (To  NURSE,  who  makes  note) 
We'll  look  him  over,  too.  (To  PAT)  Is  there  any- 
thing you  want  ? 

PAT.  ^ndeed  there  is.  There's  a  lot  o'  things  I 
want. 

DR.  HANWELL.     For  instance? 

PAT.  '  want  to  get  out  o'  here.  I  don't  like  the 
ward. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Why  not?  Aren't  you  comfort- 
able? 

PAT.     I  am  not. 

DR.  HARWELL.    What  do  you  need  ? 

PAT.         Srring  uneasily)     Well,  ^*  "^e  thing — 


OUT  THERE  69 

I  want  more  pillows.  (The  NURSE  arranges  the  pil- 
low in  his:  chair.)  Listen,  Miss !  Settle  this  so  that 
I  can  stretch  back!  And  bring  a  whole  lot  of  pil- 
lows. 

DR.  HANWELL.  All  right.  You  shall  have  them. 
(Nods  to  NURSE — she  makes  a  note.)  Anything 
else? 

PAT.  I  want  to  be  quiet.  This  place  is  too  noisy. 
I  hate  it. 

DR.  HANWELL.  When  there  is  room,  I'll  have  you 
transferred  where  it  is  quieter.  Anything  else? 

PAT.     I  want  to  walk. 

DR.  HANWELL.     You  must  have  patience. 

PAT.  I  haven't.  (Sullenly — under  his  breath.) 
I  want  to  walk. 

DR.  HANWELL.    How  old  are  you? 

PAT.  It  doesn't  matter  how  old  I  am.  I'm  old 
enough  to  walk. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Well,  you'll  have  the  pillows,  and 
we'll  move  you  to  a  quieter  place,  and  you'll  walk  as 
soon  as  Nature  permits.  There !  Feel  more  cheer- 
ful? 

PAT.     I  do  not.     I'll  never  walk. 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  mustn't  feel  that  way  about 
it. 

PAT.     I  do  feel  that  way  about  it. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Breezily)  Don't  brood !  Cheer 
up! 

PAT.  I  can't.  (Indicates  the  others.)  They're 
cheerful.  I  hate  it. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiling)  You  seem  to  hate 
everything. 

PAT.     I  do. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  don't  hate  me? 

PAT.    (Looks  at  him  long  and  hard)    I  do  not. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiling)  Well,  that's  some- 
thing. 


70  OUT  THERE 

PAT.  (Gets  sullen  again)  Only  when  you  ask  me 
questions,  an'  tell  me  to  be  cheerful. 

DR.  HAN  WELL.     I  won't  tell  you  any  more. 

PAT.     All  right! 

DR.  HANWELL.     Now  smile. 

PAT.     I  will  not. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Coaxing)  Ah!  Ah!  Ah! 
Come  on !  You  know  you  can.  Come  on.  (Smiling 
broadly  at  him.  PAT  smiles  slowly  and  reluctantly.) 
There  you  are !  Do  that  once  every  hour. 

PAT.  I  will  not.  (He  turns  away  and  closes  his 
eyes.) 

(The  DOCTOR  looks  at  them  all  and  turns  to   the 
NURSE.J 

DR.  HANWELL.  Everything  seems  very  satisfac- 
tory. 

NURSE.  Except  one  thing,  Doctor.  That  girl, 
Annie,  the  general  help  .  .  . 

DR.  HANWELL.     What  of  her? 

NURSE.  Oh,  she's  very  willing,  and  a  hard  worker, 
but  she  is  continually  breaking  rules.  I  find  her 
doing  things  for  the  men — giving  them  things,  mov- 
ing them,  replacing  their  bandages.  I've  warned  her 
repeatedly.  She's  always  hovering  around  them. 
Now  that's  all  wrong,  isn't  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Certainly  it  is. 

NURSE.  This  morning  I  found  her  lifting  a  man 
up  down  there. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Lifting  him  ? 

NURSE.  Yes.  He  wanted  to  change  his  position, 
and  asked  her,  and  I  found  her  doing  it.  It  might 
be  very  dangerous  in  some  cases. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Certainly  it  might.  I'll  speak  to 
her  when  we've  finished  in  here. 

NURSE.     Thank  you,  Doctor!     (They  disappear, 


OUT  THERE  71 

talking;  the  DOCTOR  saying  good-bye  as  he  passes. 
Presently  his  voice  is  heard  very  faintly.) 

DR.  HAN  WELL.  Well,  old  man,  and  how  are  you? 
Quite  comfortable? 

COCKNEY.  Wat's  she  complainin'  abaat?  An- 
nie's all  right,  ain't  she  ? 

CANADIAN.  Of  course  she  is.  She  tried  to  move 
me  once. 

COCKNEY.     (Laughs)    Fancy  trying  to  move  'im. 

CANADIAN.  Yes,  me.  I  couldn't  move  meself. 
Didn't  do  any  harm,  did  it? 

COCKNEY.     Not  by  the  looks  of  yer. 

CANADIAN.  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  my 
looks  ? 

COCKNEY.     'Ere,  w'at  do  you  say,  Pat — Pat,  Pat? 

PAT.     (Opening  his  eyes)     What? 

COCKNEY.     W'at  do  you  say  abaat  Annie? 

PAT.     About  who? 

COCKNEY.     Annie. 

PAT.  Annie?  Oh,  she's  all  right.  Only,  I  wish 
to  goodness  she  wouldn't  try  to  sing.  I  hate  it. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  Let  her  sing  all  she  wants,  if 
only  she  wouldn't  keep  washin'!  She's  always  wash- 
in'  round  me.  The  place  round  me  is  that  damp, 
I'll  get  my  death  o'  cold  some  day  if  she  don'  stop. 
(Coughs.) 

COCKNEY.    Ho!    Go  h'on! 

PAT.  I  hate  her  washin',  too.  Once  a  week's 
enough. 

COCKNEY.  Yaas,  for  anybody.  Oh,  g'wan,  ef 
thet's  all  y've  got  t'  s'y  abaat  her.  Don't  she  w'eel  y' 
aat  in  the  sun?  Ain't  she  alwa's  trym'  to  find  aat 
w'at  y'  want?  Yaas! 

(The  SCOTCHMAN  goes  on  methodically  dressing. 
The  NEW  ZEALANDER  painfully  begins  to  write 
a  letter.  The  COCKNEY  starts  playing  his  mouth- 


72  OUT  THERE 

organ.  He  plays  louder  and  louder,  -wagging  his 
head  in  time  to  the  tune.) 

PAT.     Stop  that ! 

COCKNEY.  All  right,  maite!  (Quiets  down  until 
you  can  just  hear  the  tune.) 

(ANNIE  enters,  carrying  glass  of  milk  and  sandwich 
on  tray  in  one  hand  and  pail  of  water  and  wash- 
rags  in  the  other.  She  is  dressed  in  the  uniform 
of  a  general  "help."  She  wears  a  battered  sol- 
dier's cap  and  has  a  torn  piece  of  a  flag  tied 
round  her  waist.) 

COCKNEY.     'Ello,  Annie!    Wat  yer  got? 

CANADIAN.     (Reaching  out  for  the  tray)     Grub! 

ANNIE.  'Ere!  'E's  going  out.  (Places  tray  in 
front  of  SCOTCH M AN.  ) 

SCOTCHMAN.     Thank  yer,  Miss! 

ANNIE.  You're  always  thinkin'  of  something  t' 
eat. 

CANADIAN.     Well,  I'm  always  hungry. 

ANNIE.  Yaas,  that's  w'y  you  got  such  a  nice  fig- 
ure. (She  looks  around,  makes  up  her  mind  where 
to  begin,  then  goes  to  cot  One,  and  starts  washing 
chair.) 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (Irritably)  What  are  you  al- 
ways washing  round  me  for?  First  thing,  I'll  get 
my  death  of  pneumonia. 

ANNIE.  (Her  face  is  quite  bright — the  sadness 
and  anxiety  have  gone  from  it.  She  seems  quite 
happy.)  Permonia !  You  make  me  laugh.  Ain't  y' 
bin  standin*  in  mud  an'  water  f 'r  months  ?  Pmnonia. 
(In  turning  round  to  wash  chair,  she  bumps  against 
him.  He  makes  a  gesture.)  Well,  y'  know,  I've 
got  t'  keep  y'  clean. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     Can't  ye  see  I'm  writin'? 

ANNIE.     Writin'  'ome? 


OUT  THERE  73 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     Yes. 

ANNIE.  That's  different.  (She  goes  to  foot  of 
bed  and  washes  rail.  NEW  ZEALANDER  gives  ANNIE 
a  savage  look  and  turns  over  on  his  right  side.) 
Does  this  disturb  you? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    Oh,  go  on  if  ye  want  to. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  no.  I'll  come  back  w'en  y're  aat 
gittin'  the  air.  (Replaces  chart  holder  noisily.) 

(NEW  ZEALANDER,  after  making  several  ineffectual 
attempts  to  write,  finally  throws  the  book  on  the 
floor  savagely.) 

ANNIE.  My!  You're  nervous !  (Sees  the  pack- 
age of  "Woodbine"  cigarettes  on  the  table,  picks  it 
up,  and  hands  it  to  him.)  Wy  don't  y'  smoke? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     Can't  use  them  things. 

ANNIE.  Wat's  the  matter  with  'em?  (Smells 
them.)  They're  "Woodbines." 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     Can't  use  'em,  I  tell  ye. 

ANNIE.  (Puts  the  package  back  on  the  table) 
Wat  kind  d'  y'  like? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     Ee-gyptian. 

ANNIE.    Egyptian?    I'll  see  if  I  can  git  y'  some. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     You  get  some?    Where? 

ANNIE.  I  dunno.  Somewheres.  I  might  run 
acrorst  'em  some  place. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (Grimly)  There  ain't  no  shops 
out  here,  young  woman. 

ANNIE.  I'll  run  acrorst  some  one  'oo  'as  'em. 
See  if  I  don't! 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (Brightening  up)  I  would 
like  a  few. 

ANNIE.  Leave  it  to  me.  (Picks  up  his  pen  and 
puts  a  piece  of  paper  in  front  of  him.)  Go  on  with 
y'r  letter.  'Ere !  '  Ave  a  dry  smoke.  (Takes  a 
"Woodbine"  out  of  the  package  and  makes  him  put 
it  in  his  mouth.)  Put  it  in  yer  mouth  and  make  yer 


74  OUT  THERE 

mind  say  as  'ow  it's  'Gyptian.  Don't  'ave  ter  light 
it — chew  it.  (Smiles  at  him,  takes  her  pail  and  goes 
on.  She  stops  by  the  SCOTCH M AN. )  Goin',  ain't 

y'? 

SCOTCHMAN.     Aye. 

ANNIE.  I'll  tidy  up  afterwards.  'Opes  y'  'ave 
a  nice  journey. 

SCOTCHMAN.     Thank  ye,  Miss. 

ANNIE.  Drop  us  a  card  an'  let's  know  'ow  y're 
gittin'  on. 

SCOTCHMAN.     A'  reet. 

ANNIE.     Make  it  a  picture  postcard. 

SCOTCHMAN.    A'  reet. 

ANNIE.     Cheer  oh!     Canada! 

CANADIAN.     Hello,  Annie! 

ANNIE.  (Washing  his  chair)  Give  us  y'r  bit  o' 
shrapnel  ? 

CANADIAN.     I  should  say  not. 

ANNIE.     Oh,  gwan!     Be  a  sport! 

CANADIAN.     What  do  you  want  with  it? 

ANNIE.     Maike  it  into  a  bracelet  f  'r  me  big  sister. 

CANADIAN.    (Laughs)    Get  a  bit  of  y'r  own. 

ANNIE.  I  will.  (Picking  up  gas  mask  from 
chair.)  Oh,  isn't  that  pretty? 

CANADIAN.  (Taking  it  from  her)  Here,  you  let 
my  lady  friend  alone. 

ANNIE.     I'm  lookin'  f'r  keepsaikes.     See  this  cap? 

CANADIAN.    Yes. 

ANNIE.     It  came  from  Flanders. 

CANADIAN.    No! 

ANNIE.     Yaas,  it  did.     See  this  'ere  flag? 

CANADIAN.     Yes. 

ANNIE.  It  come  from  Wipers.  All  I  want  now 
is  your  bit  o'  shrapnel. 

CANADIAN.    Well,  y'  don't  get  it. 

ANNIE.     Oh,  yaas,  I  will. 

CANADIAN.     Oh,  no,  you  won't. 

ANNIE,     Oh,  yaas,  I  will 


OUT  THERE  75 

CANADIAN.     Oh,  no,  you  won't. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  yaas,  I  will — you  see  if  I  don't. 
Got  everythin'  y'  want? 

CANADIAN.     No. 

ANNIE.     Wat's  missin'? 

CANADIAN.  If  ye  see  a  nice  box  o*  seegars,  send 
'em  round  here. 

ANNIE.  Don'  know  abaat  a  box.  Would  a 
couple  do  t'  go  on  wiv? 

CANADIAN.  (Starting  up)  Why?  Have  ye  got 
some? 

ANNIE.  No.  (CANADIAN  groans  and  falls  back.) 
But  I'll  run  acrorst  'em  somew'ere. 

CANADIAN.  (Sarcastically)  Ye'll  find  some  in 
the  Astor  Hotel. 

ANNIE.  All  right!  I'll  git  y'  some.  See  if  I 
don't! 

CANADIAN.  Seem'  's  believin'!  I  could  do  with 
one  now  first  rate. 

ANNIE.     All  right,  Canada.     You  leave  it  to  me. 

CANADIAN.     Be  sure  they're  big  and  black. 

ANNIE.     You  taike  w'at  y'  can  git. 

CANADIAN.     I  will,  believe  me!    An'  glad  of  'em. 

ANNIE.    (To  PAT)    'Ow  are  y',  Pat? 

PAT.     I'm  not  well. 

ANNIE.     You're  lookin'  much  better. 

PAT.     I'm  not  better. 

ANNIE.     Don't  you  contradic'  me. 

PAT.     Go  away. 

ANNIE.  (Sees  the  orange)  W'y,  'e  ain't  'ad  'is 
orange.  (Picks  it  up  and  offers  it  to  him.) 

PAT.  L'ave  it  alone.  Put  it  down,  out  of  yer 
hand,  will  ye?  (Takes  it  out  of  her  hand  and  puts 
it  on  bed.)  I  hate  oranges. 

ANNIE.  Do  y'?  Well,  never  mind.  T'morrow's 
cherry  d'y. 

PAT.  I  hate  cherries,  too.  That's  all  they  ever 
think  of,  oranges  and  cherries.  I  hate  fruit. 


76  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.     Wat  would  y'  like? 

PAT.  Never  mind  what  I'd  like.  I  can't  get 
what  I'd  like. 

ANNIE.     Oh,  gwan!     Tell  me! 

PAT.     I  will  not.     (Closes  his  eyes.) 

ANNIE.  Aw-right,  then.  Don't !  Keep  yer  dark 
secret ! 

COCKNEY.  I'll  tell  y*  w'at  'e  wants.  Choc'lits. 
Thet's  w'at  'e  wants.  Gawn — you  arst  'im. 

ANNIE.     (To  PAT)    Like  some — some  sweets? 

PAT.  (Brightens  up.)  I  would.  (Disgustedly) 
What  did  ye  want  to  speak  about  'em  for?  No  one 
ever  thinks  of  'em  here. 

ANNIE.     I'll  git  y'  some 

PAT.     Where  would  you  get  them? 

ANNIE.  I  dunno — I  may  run  acrost  some  some 
place.  I  saw  a  feller  eatin'  some  this  mornin'. 

PAT.     (Wistfully)     Did  ye? 

ANNIE.  (Nods)  I'm  sure  'e'd  give  me  some  if 
I  arst  'im — f'r  meself. 

PAT.     What  would  he  be  givin'  you  sweets  for? 

ANNIE.  Oh,  'e  likes  bein'  washed  raan'.  'E 
comes  from  London — The  Tower  'amlets.  'E's  got 
a  bad  leg,  too,  on'y  'e's  laughin'  all  the  time. 

PAT.     So  well  he  may.     An'  he  having  chocolates. 

ANNIE.     Yaas.    An'  pep'mints. 

PAT.  (Closing  his  eyes  at  the  thought)  Oh !  I 
like  them. 

ANNIE.  I'll  be  washin'  raand  'is  bed  soon,  an'  I'll 
arst  'im  for  some. 

PAT.  (Disconsolately)  Oh,  he'll  have  eaten  them 
all  by  then. 

ANNIE.     Not  'e !    'E's  got  several  boxes. 

PAT.     Don't  be  too  long  gettin'  round  to  him. 

ANNIE.  All  right.  Pat !  (Goes  up  to  CANADIAN'S 
table.)  O'  w't  a  mussy  person!  (Sees  orange  peels, 
etc.,  on  table  and  bed.)  You  can  make  one  orange 
look  like  a  box.  Can't  yer  ?  (Throws  all  the  orange 


OUT  THERE  77 

peels  into  the  pouch  pocket  of  her  apron. )  'Ere,  'old 
this !  (Picks  up  "Woodbine"  package  with  only  one 
cigarette  left  in  it  and  gives  it  to  CANADIAN.  She 
dusts  the  table.  He  puts  cigarette  in  his  mouth  and 
throws  the  package  on  the  floor.) 

ANNIE.  'Ere !  'Ere !  Wat  'ave  I  told  you  about 
frowin'  papers  on  the  floor? 

CANADIAN.  (Puts  his  arm  up  for  protection) 
Don't  strike  me,  Annie! 

ANNIE.  Make  yer  get  out  and  pick  it  up  next 
time.  (She  picks  it  up.)  Fink  I  was  'ere  just  ter 
pick  up  paper  arter  yer. 

CANADIAN.  (Lights  cigarette.  Holds  up  used 
match.)  Annie!  What  shall  I  do  with  this? 

ANNIE.  (She  takes  it  from  him,  puts  it  in  the 
pocket  in  her  apron,  and  goes  to  PAT.)  Cheer  up, 
Pat!  Y'll  soon  be  runnin'  abaat  ag'in.  (Kneels 
down  and  washes  round  his  bed.) 

PAT.     I'll  never  run. 

ANNIE.  Yaas,  y'  will.  Y'll  be  back  fightin'  bime- 
by. 

PAT.     I'll  never  fight  again. 

ANNIE.  I  s'pose  as  soon  as  y'  git  aat  of  'ere  y'll 
be  maikin'  recruitin'  speeches. 

PAT.  (Disgustedly)  I  will  not.  I'll  never  run. 
An'  I'll  never  fight.  An'  I  can't  make  speeches.  I 
hate  speeches.  I  can't  do  nothin'  any  more. 

ANNIE.  If  y'r  ain't  goin'  ter  fight,  an'  yer  ain't 
goin'  ter  maike  speeches,  an'  yer  ain't  goin'  ter  run 
abaat,  w'at  are  y'  goin'  to  do  the  rest  o'  yer  life? 

PAT.  For  the  rest  o'  me  life  I'm  goin'  to  impose, 
meself  on  the  British  Gover'ment. 

ANNIE.  (To  COCKNEY  J  Ain't  'e  the  cheerful 
one?  (To  PAT  suddenly  and  enthusiastically)  I'll 
tell  yer  'ow  to  get  well. 

PAT.    How? 

ANNIE.  Keep  on  wishin'  it.  Naa  taike  me.  I 
was  more  mis'rable  'n  you  are  once. 


78  OUT  THERE 

PAT.     You  were  not. 

ANNIE.     Yaas,  I  was. 

PAT.    Ye  couldn't  be. 

ANNIE.  Don't  you  contradic'  me.  I  tell  yer  I 
was.  It  took  a  bit  of  doin',  but  I  managed  it.  Do 
you  know  'ow  I  got  'appy? 

PAT.     No. 

ANNIE.  I  got  'appy  'cause  I  got  out  'ere.  Do 
you  know  'ow  I  got  aat  'ere  ? 

PAT.     No. 

ANNIE.     I  wished  meself  aat  'ere. 

PAT.  '  You  wished  it?  Well,  if  you  have  another 
wish  comin'  to  you,  I  wish  to  God  you'd  wish  your- 
self back. 

ANNIE.  Cheer  o'.  Pat!  Y'll  soon  be  all  'ole  an' 
runnin'  abaat  like  a  little  white  rabbit. 

PAT.  I'm  sick  o'  wishin' !  I'm  sick  o'  fisrhtin'! 
I'm  sick  o'  talkin'.  I'd  look  lovelv.  wouldn't  I,  run- 
nin' about  like  a  little  white  rabbit?  (Turns  his 
back  on  her.)  If  you  have  nothing:  better  in  store 
for  me  I  wish  vou'd  leave  me  alone  altogether. 

ANNIE.  (To  COCKNEY)  I  know  w'at  'e  wants. 
'E  wants  me  t'  sing  t'  him. 

PAT.     I  do  not. 

ANNIE.     (Sings) 

"Oh,  Paddy,  dear,  an'  did  y'  'ear 
The  noos  they're  sendin'  raand? 
They'll  stop  the  Irish  shamrock  naa 
From  a-growin'  in  the  graand." 

PAT.  (Covering  his  ears)  Mv  God!  To  think 
I  should  live  to  hear  that  sung  in  Cocknev!  (COCK- 
NEY plays  the  last  bars  of  song  on  mouth  organ.) 

COCKNEY.  (Beckons  her)  Don't  mind  'im.  'E 
don'  mean  a  word  'e  says. 

ANNIE.  (Whispering)  'E  do  take  it  'ard,  don't 
'e? 

COCKNEY.    Yaas. 

ANNIE.     Awful  not  t'  be  aible  t'  walk. 


OUT  THERE  79 

COCKNEY.  'Course  it  is!  Still,  w'at  of  it?  'E 
cawn't  walk,  an'  I  cawn't  scrap,  but  we  'ave  seen  a 
bit  o'  life  aat  'ere,  ain't  we? 

ANNIE.  (Earnestly)  Thet's  what  7  feels.  Big 
life,  too. 

COCKNEY.    Yaas.     (Sings  softly) 

"Oh,  we  'aven't  got  much  money, 
But — we   do   see   life." 
(Plays  on  the  mouth-organ.) 

ANNIE.  You're  a  funny  one,  yer  know!  W'at 
did  you  do  afore  this? 

COCKNEY.  Maide  boxes.  Wen  I  was  aat  of  a  job 
I  boxed  a  bit,  too. 

ANNIE.     (Eyes  glistening)     Prize  fighter? 

COCKNEY.  Yaas.  I  was  jus'  comin'  on,  too.  w'n 
this  broke  aat.  Oh,  but  my  brother!  My  brother 
'Enery!  'E's  a  wonder!  Gits  five  quid  a  fight  at 
the  National  Sportin'  Club.  Five  quid  a  fight! 
Thet's  money ! 

CANADIAN.     You  bet  yer  life  it  is. 

COCKNEY.  'E's  clarss,  'e  is.  'E's  somew'ere  aat 
'ere,  too. 

ANNIE.  (Eagerly)  D'yer  ever  'ear  of  'Erbert 
'Udd? 

COCKNEY.  'Erbert  'Udd?  D'yer  mean  "Chunky- 
'Erb,"  o'  Camden  Taan? 

ANNIE.     (Excitedly)     Yaas. 

COCKNEY.  Ever  'ear  of  'im!  Bli'  me!  'E  put 
me  aat  once. 

ANNIE.     Did  'e? 

COCKNEY.  (Sadly)  Yaas.  Put  me  aat  f'r  keeps. 
Knocked  me  cold.  W'at  d'  you  know  about  'im? 

ANNIE.  (Proudly)  Know  abaat  'im!  'E's  my 
brother. 

COCKNEY.  (Disbelievingly)  G'wan !  (ANNIE 
nods  vigorously.)  'E  ain't?  (Incredulously.) 

ANNIE.     Yaas,   'e  is. 

COCKNEY.    G'wan.    'E  ain't. 


8o  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.     (Hurt)     I  tell  y',  'e  is. 

COCKNEY.  (Looking  at  her  with  new  interest) 
Well,  bli'me!  Ol'  "Chunk's"  sister !  (ANNIE  nods, 
her  eyes  glistening.)  'E's  a  bit  of  aw  right  wi'  the 
mitts.  Got  a  wicked  left!  Caught  me  in  the  ear- 
'ole.  See  thctf  (Shows  his  car.)  Ga'  me  a  thick 
un,  an'  no  mistaike.  Reg'lar  colliflower! 

ANNIE.     It  is  a  beauty,  ain't  it?    Was  it  an  'ook? 

COCKNEY.     Yaas,  left  'ook. 

ANNIE.     'E's  a  wonder  at  that. 

COCKNEY.  Bli'me!  OP  "Chunk's"  sister !  W'at 
are  you  doin'  aat  'ere? 

ANNIE.     My  bit. 

COCKNEY.    W'ere's  "Chunk"? 

ANNIE.     (Evasively)     'E'll  be  aat  'ere  presently. 

COCKNEY.     (Reflectively)     Cocky  beggar! 

ANNIE.     'Oo  is? 

COCKNEY.     'E  is. 

ANNIE.    G'wan,  'e  ain't. 

COCKNEY.     Yaas,  'e  is. 

ANNIE.     Cocky,  y'rself. 

COCKNEY.  Never  took  no  notice  o'  me  after  'e 
knocked  me  aat. 

ANNIE.     W'at  did  y*  want  'im  to  do?    Kiss  yer? 

COCKNEY.  Wait  till  all  this  is  over.  My  brother 
'11  give  'im  w'at  for.  (Looking  at  her  again.)  Well, 
bli'  me !  Ol'  "Chunk's"  sister !  Like  y'  better'n  I 
do  'im! 

ANNIE.  Well,  that's  aw  right.  But  don't  you  s'y 
nothin'  ag'in  'im.  (Goes  to  PAT'S  cot  and  washes.) 

COCKNEY.  Aw  right !  Jus'  f 'r  your  saike  I  won't. 
(Whispers  behind  his  hand  to  CANADIAN.J  But 
wait  till  my  brother  meets  'im.  (Plays  "Dead 
March"  and  "Cock  o'  the  North"  to  CANADIAN. 
Plays  the  mouth-organ  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
with  a  deep  sigh)  I  wish  I  'ad  a  "Referee."  You 
know.  Sunday  paiper.  Alwa's  'as  one  o'  Sundays. 
A  "Referee,"  a  packit  o'  fags,  an'  a  gal  on  me  arm. 


OUT  THERE  81 

Maybe  I  don't  miss  'em!  Not  'alf !  Oh,  I  do  wish 
I  'ad  a  "Referee." 

ANNIE.     Wot's  that  yer  want  ? 

COCKNEY.     "Referee." 

ANNIE.     I'll  see  if  I  can  get  yer  one. 

COCKNEY.     I  ain't  seen  one  abaat. 

ANNIE.  That  don'  s'y  as  there  ain't  one  'ere.  I 
may  run  acrorst  one.  (Goes  to  SCOTCH  MAN'S  cot 
and  takes  up  his  tray.) 

COCKNEY.  If  y'  do,  don'  f'rgit  "Yours  truly." 
(Plays  on  mouth-organ.) 

ANNIE.  Awright !  (Stops  at  cot  One,  and  dusts 
rail.  NEW  ZEALANDER  turns  his  back  on  her.) 

COCKNEY.     Gi'e  us  a  song,  Annie !     No  one  abaat. 

ANNIE.     Cawn't.  .  .  .     I'm  busy. 

COCKNEY  Oh,  g'wan !  Doctor  an'  nurse's  on 
their  raands. 

ANNIE.     W'd  y'  like  me  to? 

COCKNEY.     Yaas. 

ANNIE.  (Nodding  to  PAT)  'E  wouldn'  like  me 
to  sing. 

COCKNEY.  Oh,  'e  don'  mind,  so  long  as  they  ain't 
Irish.  Besides,  'e  mightn't  wake  up.  (To  CANA- 
DIAN) W't  abaat  you? 

CANADIAN.  Sure!  I  like  that  American  one. 
First  time  I've  heard  it  in  Cockney. 

COCKNEY.    W't  abaat  you,  New  Zealand? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (Gravely)  How  do  you  spell 
"holocaust"? 

COCKNEY.     Arst  me  another. 

ANNIE.     Wat's  that  word? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.    "Holocaust." 

ANNIE.  (Thinking  hard)  Wait  a  minit.  I  seen 
it  abaat  somewhere.  (Spelling)  "O-l-e — k-o — 
(Pause.)— s-t!" 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  Thank  ye.  I  can  get  nearer 
than  that  meself.  It  begins  with  an  "h,"  not  a 


82  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.  Does  it?  Well  I'll  give  yer  a  "h."  (She 
tries  to  spell  the  word  many  ways,  putting  an  "h"  on 
each  letter.  Finally  gives  it  up.)  You  leave  a  vacant 
space.  I'll  arst  some  one  as  knows  *ow  ter  spell  it. 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  Much  obliged.  You  can  sing. 
I'm  'most  finished. 

ANNIE.  Aw  right!  Wot'll  I  sing?  "Weep  No 
More"? 

CANADIAN.     Yes. 

ANNIE.  Aw  right!  (To  NEW  ZEALANDER )  'Ere! 
Stop  yer  writin' !  This  is  a  favour,  not  an  obliga- 
tion. (He  stops  writing.) 

ANNIE.  (To  COCKNEYJ  Naa  then,  Cockney! 
Gi's  the  overture ! 

(COCKNEY  plays  overture   of  "Weep  No   More." 
CANADIAN  conducts  with  his  crutch.) 

CANADIAN.     Now  then,  Annie! 
ANNIE.     (Sings  song  and  chorus  of  "Weep  No 
More."    At  end  of  chorus)    Naa,  then,  all  together! 

(They  all  join  in  the  chorus,  somewhat  inharmoni- 
ously.  The  COCKNEY  accompanies  on  the  mouth- 
organ.  The  CANADIAN,  sustaining  the  last  note 
in  a  very  deep  bass  voice,  long  after  all  the  others 
have  finished.) 

ANNIE.  'Ere,  'ere!  Wake  up,  Canada!  (He 
stops  suddenly. )  The  war's  all  over.  (She  goes  off, 
singing  softly.) 

COCKNEY.  (Shaking  the  CANADIAN'S  hand)  Con- 
gratulations !  You're  awright  on  the  bass  notes. 

(At  the  end  of  the  song  the  SCOTCHMAN,  who  is  now 
ready  to  go  out,  starts  hunting  frantically  for 
something.  He  turns  up  the  mattress  and  dis- 


OUT  THERE  83 

arranges  the  blankets,  pillows,  and  water-proof 
sheet.) 

ANNIE.  (Comes  running  in,  takes  both  his  hands) 
'Ere,  'ere!  Wat  are  yer  doin'  of?  Wat  d'  yer 
want? 

SCOTCHMAN.  Ma  bonnet!  Whaur's  ma  bonnet? 
(Goes  down  threateningly  to  the  COCKNEY.^ 
Whaur's  ma  bonnet? 

COCKNEY.     I  ain't  seen  y'r  bloomin'  bonnit. 

SCOTCHMAN.  I  had  it  this  mornin'.  Some  o* 
you's  taken  it.  (To  PAT)  Ha'  you  got  it? 

PAT.     I  hate  the  sight  of  it. 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Excitedly  to  CANADIAN )  Ha'  you 
ma  bonnet? 

CANADIAN.     No,  sir!     I  have  not! 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Shouts  across  cot  at  NEW  ZEA- 
LANDERJ  Whaur's  that  bonnet? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     I  don't  know. 

ANNIE.  (Handing  him  khaki  hat  which  she  takes 
from  NEW  ZEALANDER'S  cot)  'Ere !  Taike  this ! 
'Ave  an  'at! 

SCOTCHMAN.     I  want  ma  bonnet. 

ANNIE.  Cawn't  understand  y'  wantin'  t'  wear  a 
bonnit,  an'  skirts,  like  a  gal.  Y've  grown  nat  of  it 
long  ago.  'Ere !  'Ave  a  false  face —  (Handing 
him  mask.)  'Ere's  a  helmet.  (Takes  CANADIAN'S 
helmet .) 

CANADIAN.  (Takes  it  from  her)  No,  I  need  it 
in  my  business. 

ANNIE.  'Ere's  one  with  a  'ole  in  it.  Y'  can  s'y 
y'  was  shot  at  an'  yer  brain  got  in  the  way,  and 
saved  yer,  and  ye  escaiped ! 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Almost  in  tears)  I  want  ma  bon- 
net. I  wouldna  wear  onything  else.  I  brought  it 
wi*  me.  I  want  to  tak'  it  hame  agen.  (In  loud  voice 
to  the  men.)  Please  gie  me  ma  bonnet.  (Then  to  AN- 


84  OUT  THERE 

NIE,  almost  in  tears)     Please,  get  me  ma  bonnet. 
(He  goes  on  looking  for  bonnet.) 

ANNIE.  (Seeing  his  distress)  Come  on!  Give 
'im  'is  bonnit.  Y've  'ad  y'r  little  joke.  Come  on! 
Give  'im  'is  bonnit.  (To  NEW  ZEALANDER  j  You 
got  'is  bonnit? 

NEW  ZEALANDER.     I  ain't  got  it. 

ANNTE.  (To  CANADIAN,)  Come  on,  w'ere's  'is 
bonnit  ? 

CANADIAN.     Nothin'  doin*. 

ANNIE.     (To  PAT)    W'ere's  'is  bonnit? 

PAT.     I  don't  know  where  it  is. 

ANNIE.  (To  COCKNEY,)  Hi!  Cocky!  Where's 
'is  bonnit?  (COCKNEY  points  under  his  bed.  AN- 
NIE, taking  it  from  under  the  mattress,  holds  it  up 
so  that  the  strings  dangle.  To  COCKNEY j  111  'ide 
yer  music  on  yer  one  day.  Fancy  makin'  another 
war  over  that !  (She  runs  over  to  cot  Two  and  puts 
bonnet  under  waterproof  sheet;  then,  uncovering  it, 
calls)  Sandy!  'ere  it  is!  They're  both  pink,  and 
yer  couldn't  tell  the  difference. 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Laughs  and  cries)  Ma  bonnet! 
Ma  preecious  bonnet!  (Fondling  it.)  I  thocht  I'd 
lost  ye.  Ma  deear  bonnet!  (To  ANNIE,)  Whaur 
was  it  ? 

ANNIE.     Under  there. 

SCOTCHMAN.  Ah !  (Goes  back  to  his  bed,  sits  on 
chair,  and  puts  the  bonnet  on.  COCKNEY,  CANADIAN 
and  NEW  ZEALANDER  laugh.) 

ANNIE.  (Arranging  bed-clothes)  His  "bonnet" 
means  more  to  'im  than  any  o'  my  'ats  ever  did  to 
me.  An'  I  'ad  one  wif  a  feather  in  it. 

SCOTCHMAN.  (Delighted  at  finding  his  bonnet, 
sings) 

"I  love  a  lassie, 
A  bonnie,  highland  lassie, 
She's  as  pure  as  the  lily  in  the  dell." 


OUT  THERE  85 

(They  all  chime  in  here,  the  COCKNEY  with  the  or- 
gan.) 

"She's  as  sweet  as  the  heather, 
The  bonnie  purple  heather, 
Annie,  my  Scotch  blue-bell." 
(SANDY  gives  a  whoop  at  end  of  song.) 

(During  the  last  half  of  this  chorus  ANNIE  goes  off 
to  get  her  pail  and  tray.  She  comes  on  again, 
trying  to  sing  the  chorus.) 

ANNIE. 

I  love  a  lassie 

A  bonnie — er — Tland  lassie 

She's  as — er — pure — er — as  the  lily  in  the  dell — 

er — 
She's  as  sweet  as  the  'eather 

The  bonnie  purple — er 

(She  stops  short.    The  CANADIAN  prompts  her.) 
CANADIAN.     "Heather." 

ANNIE.      I    just   said   "'eather."     Wat,    again? 
Awright!    "The  bonnie  purple  'eather"- 

CANADIAN.    For  the  love  o'  Mike,  Annie,  give  us 
an  "h." 

ANNIE.     Awright!    I'll  pick  one  up  on  the  Han- 
nie.     (Sings) 

"Hannie,  my  Scotch  blue-beller." 

(The  NURSE  enters  with  mail,  newspapers,  etc.) 

NURSE.  (To  ANNIE^     What  were  you  doing? 

ANNIE.  Nothin'. 

NURSE.  Were  you  making  that  noise? 

ANNIE.  Not  all  of  it. 

NURSE.  Go  on  with  your  work.     Oh !    Here's  a 

letter  for  you. 

^  ANNIE.  Thenk'y',  Miss !     Would  yer  mind  put- 
ting it  on  me  tray,  Miss?     (Reads  address  as  she 


86  OUT  THERE 

starts  to  go.)  "Annie  'Udd,  'Orspital."  Cheer-oh, 
Cockney.  (COCKNEY  plays-a  run  on  mouth-organ.) 

PAT.  (Calls  to  ANNIE,)  Annie !  Don't  forget  the 
sweets ! 

ANNIE.    Awright ! 

PAT.  And  arrange  this  before  you  go.  (Point- 
ing to  back  of  chair.) 

ANNIE.  I  cawn't.  I'll  get  turned  out  o'  the  'ors- 
pital. 

PAT.  Lord  love  us,  if  they  turned  you  out  we'd 
all  go  on  strike. 

ANNIE.  Awright!  'Ow  do  you  want  it,  up  or 
down? 

PAT.     Down. 

(ANNIE  is  about  to  adjust  the  chair  -when  NURSE 
turns  round  and  sees  her.) 

NURSE.  Now,  what  did  I  tell  you  about  moving 
the  men?  Get  some  clean  linen  and  make  this  bed. 
(Pointing  to  cot.) 

ANNIE.  Yaas,  Miss!  (Whispers)  Good-bye, 
Cocky ! 

PAT.    (In  a  whisper)    Don't  forget  the  sweets. 

(ANNIE  exits.  NURSE  hands  out  letters,  etc.,  amid 
thanks  and  comments.  All  have  something  ex- 
cept PAT.  NURSE  gives  one  letter  to  NEW 
ZEALANDER;  second,  two  letters  to  SCOTCH- 
MAN ;  third,  two  letters  and  American  news- 
paper to  CANADIAN  ;  fourth,  one  letter  and 
"Reynolds'  Newspaper"  to  COCKNEY.J 

CANADIAN.     (Seeing  postmark)    New  York ! 

(COCKNEY  tries  to  tear  open  the  wrapper  with  his 
one  hand,  the  NURSE,  seeing  his  difficulty — ) 


OUT  THERE  87 

NURSE.     I'll  open  it  for  you. 

COCKNEY.  Bli'  me!  It's  "Reynold^*."  (Starts 
to  read.) 

NURSE.  (To  PAT,)  I'm  sorry  there's  nothing  for 
you. 

PAT.  That's  all  right.  No  one  ever  writes  to  me. 
(Pause)  An'  I  never  write  to  any  one  either.  It 
saves  a  lot  of  trouble  on  both  sides. 

NURSE.  But  I  have  a  package  for  you.  (Gives 
him  package,  then  goes  to  cot  One.) 

COCKNEY.    (To  PAT)     Wat,  oh !     Choc'lits ? 

PAT.  (Quickly  unpacks  box  to  find  they  are  or- 
anges) My  God!  (Throws  box  on  cot.  They  all 
laugh.) 

NURSE.     It's  time  for  your  airing. 

COCKNEY.     Awright,  Miss! 

(NURSE  is  about  to  help  NEW  ZEALANDER  from  cot.) 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  Never  mind,  Sister !  I'm  get- 
ting on  fine. 

NURSE.  (Goes  to  COCKNEY'S  cot.  Speaks  to 
SANDY  as  she  passes.)  Help  him,  please ! 

NEW  ZEALANDER.  (Meets  SANDY  as  he  comes  to 
foot  of  his  cot.  SANDY  is  carrying  his  comfort-bag.) 
Good-bye,  Sandy,  old  man !  I  shall  soon  be  with 
yer  again.  All  among  the  whizz-bangs  and  the  pip- 
squeaks. (They  go  off  arm  in  arm.) 

CANADIAN.  (Hopping  after  them  with  the  aid  of 
his  crutch)  Here !  Wait  a  minute,  Sandy !  I  want 
to  say  good-bye  to  you. 

NURSE.  (To  COCKNEY,)  You  can  read  that  out- 
side. 

COCKNEY.     Yaas,   Miss ! 

NURSE.    Come  on,  Pat. 

PAT.     I'd  rather  stay  here. 

NURSE.  Oh,  no.  You  must  get  some  sunshine 
and  air.  I'll  wheel  you. 


88  OUT  THERE 

COCKNEY.     Le'  me!     I  a'ways  do,  y'  know. 
NURSE.     Thank  you !    Did  you  get  your  "Wood- 
bine" cigarettes? 

COCKNEY.    Yaas,  Miss!     In  me  pockit.     ( NURSE 
goes  off  into  next  ward.    To  PAT)    'Ere !    'Old  this ! 
(Gives  him  "Reynolds's"  to  hold.) 
PAT.     I'd  rather  stay  here. 

COCKNEY.  Naa,  if  you  say  another  word  I'll  'it 
yer,  see?  (He  playfully  puts  his  fist  against  PAT'S 
face  and  laughs.  Starts  -wheeling-  PAT  off  L.  and 
sings ) 

"So  'old  yer  'and  aat,  naughty  boy! 
'Old  yer  'and  aat,  y'  naughty  boy ! 
Last  night,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
I  saw  yer !     I  saw  yer ! 
With  a  nice  girl  in  the.park ; 
You  were  strollin'  full  o'  joy, 
And  ye  told  'er  ye  never  kissed  a  girl  before  ; 
'Old  yer  'and  out,  y'  naughty  boy!" 

(On  each  "I  saw  yer"  he  makes  a  little  hop,  and  is 
just  out  of  sight  at  the  end  of  the  song.) 

(ANNIE  comes  in,  carrying  two  clean  sheets  and  pil- 
low cases  and  some  loose  chocolates.  She  places 
PAT'S  pillmv  at  foot  of  bed,  over  the  box  of 
oranges,  and  lays  out  six  chocolates  on  it.  She 
goes  to  cot  Two,  imitating  COCKNEY  in  his  song 
and  hop,  and  starts  to  make  up  the  bed.  As  she 
does  this  she  sings  all  the  COCKNEY  ditties  she 
can  think  of.  The  bed  is  nearly  made  when  she 
hears  the  DOCTOR  coming.  She  runs  to  PAT'S 
cot  and  covers  up  the  chocolates  just  as  the  DOC- 
TOR enters.) 

DOCTOR.  (Genially]  Well,  and  how  is  "Nurse" 
Annie  ? 

ANNIE.     I  wish  I  was  "Nurse"  Annie. 


OUT  THERE  89 

DR.  HANWELL.     You  mustn't  be  in  a  hurry. 

ANNIE.     D'  y'  think  I  ever  will  be? 

DR.  HANWELL.  There's  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't.  Just  now  you  must  be  content  to  do  what 
you  can. 

ANNIE.  (Quickly)  Oh,  I'm  content,  sir.  Reely, 
I  am.  An'  'appy,  too.  'Appier  'n  I've  ever  bin,  or 
thought  of  being. 

DR.  HANWELL.  That's  right.  Not  "haunted"  any 
more? 

ANNIE.  No,  sir.  (Smiles  sheepishly.)  "Cheery" 
Annie,  they  calls  me  'ere. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Good! 

ANNIE.  I  keep  their  minds  orf  themselves.  Yaas, 
sir.  I'm  doing  jes'  w'at  I  used  t'  dream  abaat,  an' 
think  abaat — workin'  f'r  the  soljers,  doin'  somethin' 
f'r  them,  bein'  near  'em.  It's  not  much  I'm  doin'. 
Still,  it  is  somethin'.  (Smiles  wistfully.)  'Course, 
I  saw  meself  with  a  uniform  an'  a  crorss  all  red 
acrorss  me  chest.  I  would  like  to  be  a  nurse  in  a 
real  uniform.  It'd  be  fine  to  go  back  t'  Camden 
Taan  like  one  o'  them  titled  ladies  y'  see  in  the  illus- 
trated paipers.  .  .  .  Mother  an'  Liz  would  stare, 
an'  no  mistake. 

DR.  HANWELL.     What  do  you  hear  from  them? 

ANNIE.     'Erb's  gorn. 

DR.  HANWELL.    'Erb? 

ANNIE.  My  brother.  You  know!  'E's  'listed. 
I've  just  'ad  a  letter  from  mother.  'E  went  orf 
the  very  d'y  I  left.  'Course  'e  ain't  fightin'  yet! 
Just  trainin'.  Oh,  an'  mother!  She's  goin'  t'  do 
somethin'. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Isn't  that  splendid?    What? 

ANNIE.  She  don'  s'y  w'at.  She  just  says, 
"Somethin',"  she  says.  I  'xpec'  she'd  bin  'avin'  a 
little  drop  o'  comfort.  Still,  she  writes  very  cheer- 
ful. Not  orf'n  she's  cheerful.  Gin's  a  depressin' 
sperrit,  ain't  it? 


90  OUT  THERE 

DR.  HANWELL.    Very. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  an'  she  says  Lizzie's — my  sister,  you 
know — Lizzie's  willin'  t'  maik5  war-stuff  if  they  p'y 
'er  better'n  she's  gettin'. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Good! 

ANNIE.  So,  taike  it  all  in  all,  aar  fem'ly's  doin' 
aar  bit. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Yes — indeed  !  (Laughing  gen- 
ially and  taking  out  cigarette  case.)  You  seem  to 
have  stirred  them  all  up. 

ANNIE.  (Eyeing  the  cigarettes)  Yaas,  sir.  An' 
Camden  Taan  taikes  a  bit  o'  stirrin',  I  can  tell  y'. 

DR.  HANWELL.     I  suppose  so. 

ANNIE.  (Suddenly  stops  making  bed.  Pointing 
to  cigarettes)  Are  they  'Gyptian? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Yes. 

ANNIE.     Can  y' spare  one  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.     (Astonished)    Do  you  smoke? 

ANNIE.  (Evasively)  Oh,  I  won'  s'y  I  do  an'  I 
won'  s'y  I  don't.  But  I  would  like  one — if  y'  don' 
mind.  (Di<.  HANWELL  holds  out  the  case  amusedly. 
ANNIE  takes  one.)  Sure  y'  can  spare  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Oh,  yes.  (Going  to  close  the 
case.) 

ANNIE.     Could  I  'ave  another? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Certainly.  (Holds  out  the  case 
again  and  amusedly  watches  her  take  another.) 

ANNIE.     Thank  ye,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  have  expensive  tastes. 

ANNIE.  (Holding  the  two  cigarettes  gingerly  in 
her  fingers)  Yaas,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.    You  mustn't  smoke  on  duty. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  no,  sir.  Not  me.  (Goes  on  with 
her  work.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Just  about  to  go  out,  remember- 
ing, turns  back)  By  the  way,  that  reminds  me.  I've 
had  some  complaints  about  you. 

ANNIE.     (Startled)    Complaints?    Abaat  me? 


OUT  THERE  91 

DR.  HANWELL.     Yes. 

ANNIE.    (Her  eyes  filling)    I  do  me  bes',  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.     It  isn't  about  your  work. 

ANNIE.     Wat  is  it,  then? 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  mustn't  go  near  the  men  so 
much.  You  can  speak  to  them,  of  course.  But  you 
mustn't  touch  them.  Only  nurses  are  allowed  to  do 
that. 

ANNIE.     Oh,  but  I  don't  orf'en. 

DR.  HANWELL.     But 

ANNIE.     On'y  w'en  no  one's  bin  near. 

DR.  HANWELL.     You  mustn't  at  any  time. 

ANNIE.  Sometimes  they  cry  aat  f'r  somethin' — 
water,  or  an  orange,  or  to  'elp  'em  move  w'en  they 
ain't  able  to  by  theirselves.  I  on'y  moved  Brown 
'cos  'is  shoulder  'ad  gorn  to  sleep.  Yer  know,  y' 
cawn't  git  yer  eyes  to  sleep  if  yer  shoulder  does  it 
first. 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  must  leave  that  to  the  nurses. 

ANNIE.     But  if  she  ain't  there? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Bring  her. 

ANNIE.     It  ain't  much  that  I  do,  reely  it  ain't. 

DR.  HANWELL.  It  might  be  very  serious.  Sup- 
posing the  man  shouldn't  have  water  or  an  orange? 
Suppose  it  was  the  worst  thing  he  could  possibly 
have? 

ANNIE.     (Discouraged)     I  see,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.  And  many  cases  must  not  be 
moved.  The  bandages  may  slip.  It  might  be  very 
serious. 

ANNIE.    Yaas,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.  I  don't  like  having  complaints. 
You  must  obey  the  rules. 

ANNIE.  (Earnestly)  Oh,  I  do.  Indeed  I  do.  I 
fetch  an'  carry  an'  wash  up  an'  mend  all  d'y.  (With 
a  wan  smile.)  W'enever  I've  touched  'em,  or  give 
'em  anythin',  it's  bin  a  bit  of  extry. 

DR.   HANWELL.     You  must  deny  yourself   "ex- 


92  OUT  THERE 

tras."  The  only  way  you  can  hope  to  get  on  is  by 
scrupulously  obeying. 

ANNIE.     (Disconsolately)     All  right,  sir.     I  will. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Now  don't  get  "Haunted"  again. 

ANNIE.     (Brightening)     I  won't. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Discipline,  my  girl.    Discipline. 

ANNIE.  (Nodding  intelligently)  I  know.  Same 
as  the  soljers.  We're  all  soljers  aat  'ere,  ain't  we? 

DR.  HANWELL.  We  are.  And  we  must  all  obey 
the  superior  command.  That's  the  only  way  to  win. 

ANNIE.    (Determinedly)    An'  we  are  goin'  t'  win  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Yes. 

ANNIE.     We  got  to  win,  bli'  me ! 

DR.  HANWELL.    So  no  more  complaints,  Annie. 

ANNIE.     No,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Be  a  good  girl.     (Walks  away.) 

ANNIE.  (Hurrying  after  him)  Doctor,  can  I  'ave 
a  cigar? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Turns  back  to  her)  Now  don't 
tell  me  you  smoke  cigars  ? 

ANNIE.     No,  sir.     But  I  like  to  'ave  one  'andy. 

DR.  HANWELL.     Why? 

ANNIE.     Oh,  jus'  becos. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Looking  at  her  sternly)  Whom 
do  you  want  it  for? 

ANNIE.     Won't  git  'im  into  trouble? 

DR.  HANWELL.     No. 

ANNIE.  (Points  to  cot)  The  Canadian.  'E  wants 
one  somethin'  awful. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Now,  there's  another  instance. 
It  might  be  the  worst  thing  for  him.  You  must  say 
whom  you  want  these  things  for. 

ANNIE.     It  couldn't  'urt  'im.     'E's  a  big  feller. 

DR.  HANWELL.  That  doesn't  matter.  You  must 
ask. 

ANNIE.     Well,  I  'ave  asked.     May  'e  'ave  one? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (He  holds  open  case.  She  takes 
one.)  Yes. 


OUT  THERE  93 

ANNIE.  My,  they  are  big,  ain't  they?  Have  you 
got  a  black  one  ? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Here,  try  this  one. 

ANNIE.     Oh,  that's  brown,  too. 

DR.  HANWELL.    Here's  another  one. 

ANNIE.  Oh,  they  will  last  him  an  awful  long 
time. 

DR.  HANWELL.  I'll  send  him  round  some.  But, 
remember,  always  ask. 

ANNIE.     I  will.     An'  thenk  y',  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.     (Struck  by  a  thought)     Annie! 

ANNIE.     Yaas,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.  You  don't  want  those  cigarettes 
for  yourself — do  you? 

ANNIE.  (Evasively)  Well,  y'  see (Picks 

up  cigarettes  and  cigars  quickly.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  Whom  are  you  collecting  them 
for? 

ANNIE.   (Frightened)  The  New  Zealander,  Bates. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Why  did  you  say  you  wanted 
them  for  yourself? 

ANNIE.  (Faintly)  I  thought  p'r'aps  y'  mightn't 
let  me  'ave  'em  if  y'  knew.  (Pause — DR.  HANWELL 
looks  sternly  at  her.)  It  won't  'appen  ag'in,  sir. 

DR.   HANWELL.     I  hope  not. 

ANNIE.     May  'e  'ave  'em,  sir? 

DR.   HANWELL.     Yes     . 

ANNIE.  Thenk  y'!  Won't  'appen  ag'in!  Doc- 
tor, I've  got  three  cigars ;  can  I  'ave  another  ciga- 
rette ?  (He  gives  her  one  more  cigarette — he  is  about 
to  go  off.)  Thenk  yer,  sir!  Won't  'appen  ag'in! 
(Runs  to  NEW  ZEALANDER'S  cot,  gets  pen  and  paper.) 
Would  yer  mind  writing  a  word  down  for  me? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Taking  the  pen  and  paper) 
What  is  the  word  ? 

ANNIE.     "Olecorst." 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Looks  at  her  and  smiles)  Who's 
this  for? 


94  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.  The  New  Zealander,  Bates.  That  won't 
'urt  'im,  will  it? 

DR.  HAN  WELL.  Not  on  paper.  (He  writes  the 
word  and  shakes  the  fountain  pen.  Some  ink  spurts 
onto  the  floor.) 

ANNIE.  That's  w'y  they  call  'em  fountain  pens, 
ain't  it? 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Smiles  and  gives  her  pen  and 
paper.  She  puts  them  on  NEW  ZEALANDER'S  table.) 
Have  you  any  other  friends  with  any  little  idiosyn- 
crasies ? 

ANNIE.  (Shocked — not  understanding)  Oh,  no, 
sir.  Nothin'  like  that  in  this  ward,  sir. 

NURSE.  (Enters)  Two  fresh  cases,  Doctor. 
(She  gives  the  DOCTOR  two  fever  charts.  To  AN- 
NIE,) Turn  down  those  covers  and  remove  the  pil- 
lows. 

(ANNIE  moves  the  table  R.  of  cot  Three  back  a  little. 
Puts  pillows  from  cot  Three  on  chair,  then  takes 
the  clothes  off  and  holds  them  up  at  foot  of  cot. 
They  lay  the  stretcher  on  the  empty  cot,  Three, 
guided  by  the  NURSE.  ANNIE  replaces  covers. 
Two  other  BEARERS  carry  on  another  case  and, 
by  the  NURSE'S  order,  place  the  stretcher  on  the 
cot  vacated  by  the  SCOTCHMAN.  The  NURSE 
has  removed  the  pillows  and  is  standing  with 
bed  clothes  at  foot  of  cot  Two.  The  men  are  put 
in  the  beds  very  carefully,  and  the  covers  drawn 
over  them.  DR.  HANWELL  dismisses  the  two 
BEARERS,  and,  with  the  NURSE,  arranges  the  men 
in  the  most  comfortable  positions.  One  is  ban- 
daged across  the  head.  The  other  has  his  arm 
bound,  and  his  back  and  chest  bandaged.  As 
the  two  BEARERS  pass  out,  ANNIE  touches  the 
last  one  timidly.  He  stops.) 

ANNIE.  (In  a  whisper,  pointing  to  a  paper  half 
out  of  his  pocket)  Is  that  the  "Referee"? 


OUT  THERE  95 

BEARER.     Yes. 

ANNIE.    Can  I  'ave  it? 

BEARER.  (Cheerfully)  All  right!  (Takes  it  out 
and  gives  it  to  her.) 

ANNIE.  (Very  pleased)  I'm  much  obliged. 
(Runs  across  and  places  "Referee"  on  COCKNEY'S 
cot.  BEARER  joins  the  other  BEARER.  They  pass 
out.) 

DR.  HAN  WELL.     They've  both  had  opiates? 

NURSE.     Yes,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Continuing  conversation  with 
the  NURSE  and  moving  away,  the  NURSE  following.) 
Come  across  with  me,  and  I'll  give  them  to  you. 
(Stops  when  he  sees  ANNIE.  J  Stay  here  until  the 
nurse  comes  back.  (Hurries  out.) 

NURSE.  (Severely,  to  ANNIE,)  And  don't  speak 
to  them — or  touch  them.  They  mustn't  be  wakened 
or  moved. 

ANNIE.     I  know,  miss.     I  won't. 

(NURSE  rapidly  follows  the  DOCTOR  out.  ANNIE 
looks  in  awe  and  pity  at  the  two  men.  The  one 
in  No.  Two  is  lying  with  his  head  away  from 
her.  No.  Three  is  perfectly  motionless,  too, 
lying  flat  on  his  back.  ANNIE  gives  a  little 
shiver,  then  goes  to  the  NEW  ZEALANDER'S  cot 
and  puts  the  cigarettes,  with  the  scrap  of  note 
paper,  on  his  pillow.  She  looks  at  the  men  as 
she  passes,  and  hurriedly  puts  the  cigars  on  the 
CANADIAN'S  pillow.  The  man  in  No.  Three 
suddenly  begins  to  speak  in  his  delirium — he 
counts  continually.) 

No.  THREE.  (In  delirium)  One — two — three — 
four — charge!  (His  voice  rises  as  he  mechanically 
goes  on  counting.) 

(ANNIE  walks  over  nervously  and  looks  down  at 


96  OUT  THERE 

him.  She  is  going  to  touch  him,  but  checks  her- 
self. She  looks  off  worriedly  in  the  direction 
in  which  the  NURSE  went,  as  though  anxious 
for  her  return.  No.  Three's  voice  rises  louder 
and  louder.  ANNIE  tries  to  read  the  "Referee," 
so  as  to  resist  the  temptation  to  help  the  man. 
She  even  walks  over  with  it  to  the  COCKNEY'S 
cot,  and  puts  it  on  his  pillow.  Finally,  as  no  one 
comes,  and  unable  to  stand  the  ceaseless  mo- 
notony of  the  man  counting,  she  goes  timidly  to 
him,  takes  his  hand,  and  begins  to  stroke  it, 
singing,  "Rock-a-by,  Baiby."  Gradually  the 
man's  voice  gets  lower  and  lower,  then  fades 
away.  ANNIE  stops  the  lullaby  and  stands  look- 
ing down  at  him.  Suddenly  the  man  in  No. 
Two  struggles  up  with  a  groan,  gives  a  cry,  and 
falls  forward.  ANNIE  springs  up  and  puts  him 
back  on  the  pillow,  then  stares  at  him  in  mute, 
helpless  horror.  The  NURSE  hurries  back  with 
some  medical  packages,  and  catches  ANNIE  in 
the  act.) 

NURSE.  What  do  you  mean  by  touching  that 
man? 

ANNIE.  (Wildly)  'E— 'e— 'e (Her  hands 

beating  the  air  helplessly.) 

NURSE.  This  is  the  last  time.  You  will  not  be 
allowed  near  the  men  again.  Leave  the  ward ! 

ANNIE.  (Trying  to  speak  articulately — glaring 
wild-eyed  at  the  man)  'E  was — 'e  was — 'e  was — 

(DR.  HANWELL  hurries  in.) 

DR.  HANWELL.     What  was  that? 

NURSE.  She's  been  doing  it  again.  I  found  her 
pulling  that  man  about  on  his  pillow,  after  our  strict 
instructions.  You  said  he  was  not  to  be  touched. 

DR.  HANWELL.    I  did. 


OUT  THERE  97 

NURSE.  She's  not  to  be  trusted  near  these  people. 
(To  ANNIE)  Leave  the  ward. 

ANNIE.  (Finds  her  voice,  and  screams  vehement- 
ly and  wildly)  'E's  my  man — my  sweet'eart — an* 
I'm  not  t'  touch  'im !  I'm  t'  be  sent  aw'y !  'E  went 
becos  I  arst  'im  to,  an'  naa  'e's  there  dyin',  an'  I'm 
not  t'  touch  'im!  I'm  t'  go!  Wat  'ave  I  done? 
Wat  any  one  would  do !  Not  touch  'em !  (Points 
to  No.  Three  distractedly.)  Look  at  'im!  Scream- 
in*  aat  in  'is  sleep,  an'  I  stroked  'im  an'  sang  'im 
quiet.  (To  NURSE)  Not  touch  'em!  I  wouldn't 
'urt  any  of  'em.  They're  God's  men.  Thet's  w'at 
they  are.  Can  any  man  do  more'n  they  'ave?  'E's 
my  man — my  sweet'eart ! 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Trying  to  soothe  her)  Quiet! 
Quiet !  Tell  me  exactly  what  you  did. 

ANNIE.  (Breathless — crying  distractedly)  'E 
cried  aat  an'  fell  forward,  an'  I  'elped  'im  back,  saime 
as  'e  is  naa.  An'  I  sawr  'oo  'e  was,  an'  I  was  'oldin' 
'im,  'ardly  believin'  it,  w'en  she  come  in  an'  saw  me, 
an'  said  I  was  t'  leave  the  ward.  I  sent  'im  t'  the 
war,  an'  I'm  not  t'  touch  'im ! 

DR.  HANWELL.  In  this  instance  you  were  per- 
fectly right.  From  now,  he  will  be  your  especial 
care.  See  that  he  never  plunges  forward  again.  He 
must  be  watched  continually,  and  kept  just  as  he  is. 
Don't  allow  him,  under  any  circumstances,  to  fall 
forward,  or  he  may  have  a  hemorrhage.  You  needn't 
leave  the  ward.  From  now  on,  you  are  an  assistant- 
nurse. 

ANNIE.      (Dazed — half-hysterical)     Doctor ! 

DR.  HANWELL.    Yes.     And  don't  let  him  speak. 

ANNIE.    (Whispering)    I  won't,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.     No  excitement. 

ANNIE.  I  know  'ow  t'  'andle  'im,  sir.  (Looking 
down  at  him.) 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Going  to,  cot  Three)  He's  been 
talking? 


98  OUT  THERE 

ANNIE.  Countin',  sir.  "One — two — three — four 
— Charge!"  Time  an' time  ag'in ! 

DR.  HANWELL.  (Nods  under  standingly  as  he 
looks  down  at  the  man)  I  see.  He  goes  through  it 
all  up  to  the  time  he  was  hit.  You  sang  to  him? 

ANNIE.  (Nods)  A  baiby  song.  It  used  to  quiet 
mother — when  she  was  'urt. 

DR.  HANWELL.  Take  your  instructions  from  her. 
From  now  you're  her  assistant.  (ANNIE  gulps  and 
half  sobs — and  nods.  She  cannot  speak.) 

NURSE.  (To  ANNIE,  in  a  kindly  voice)  I'm 

sorry!  I  didn't  know  when  I  spoke  to  you 

(Puts  her  hand  on  ANNIE'S  shoulder.) 

ANNIE.     (Huskily)    Aw  right,  miss! 

NURSE.  Take  care  of  them  for  a  few  minutes. 
You  seem  to  know  how.  (She  hurries  out.) 

ANNIE.  (DR.  HANWELL  goes  back  to  cot  Two 
and  listens  to  the  man's  breathing.  She  asks,  wild- 
eyed  and  anxious)  Will  'e — will  'e  die,  sir? 

DR.  HANWELL.     Certainly  not! 

ANNIE.  (Her  hand  goes  to  her  mouth  and  stifles 
aery.)  Oh!  Will 'e  live? 

DR.  HANWELL.  Of  course  he  will.  We  must  keep 
him  asleep.  Nature  is  fighting  for  him  now.  He 
has  everything  on  his  side.  How  old  is  he? 

ANNIE.     Twen'y-four,  sir. 

DR.  HANWELL.  He'll  live  many  more  years. 
(Smiling.)  It  will  be  a  very  happy  waking  for  him. 
But (Warning  her) — no  fuss! 

ANNIE.     I  know  'ow  to  fandle  him 

DR.  HANWELL.    You're  a  good  girl,  Annie. 

ANNIE.     (Huskily)    You're  a  fine  man,  sir! 

(DR.  HANWELL  goes  out.  ANNIE  looks  down  at  her 
man — resists  the  inclination  to  touch  him — sits 
between  the  two  beds — thinks,  takes  off  her 
apron  and  folds  it  up  and  puts  it  under  the  chair 
— then  takes  from  her  bosom  a  little  crumpled 


*.       OUT  THERE  99 

nurse's  cap,  smooths  it  out,  and  puts  it  on.  The 
man  in  No.  Three  begins  to  count  faintly — she 
looks  at  him — then  at  No.  Two — who  stirs  un- 
easily. The  man's  counting  grows  louder.  She 
stands  up — irresolutely  looking  from  one  cot  to 
the  other — and  without  leaving  her  sweetheart's 
side,  begins  to  croon  "Rock-a-by,  Baiby."  The 
man's  voice  rises  louder  and  louder.  She  sees 
that  she  must  go  to  him  if  she  is  to  quiet  him. 
She  nerves  herself  to  leave  her  lover's  cot — 
goes  to  the  troubled  man,  and  closing  her  eyes 
with  an  effort  she  sings  as  she  did  before  and 
strokes  his  hand.  In  a  little  while  the  man's 
voice  begins  to  soften.  He  is  still.  She  gives 
a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  goes  back  and  sits  and 
watches  her  lover.  The  sound  of  voices  quite 
near  is  heard,  and  the  men  appear,  returning 
from  their  airing.  COCKNEY  comes  in  first, 
wheeling  PAT,  followed  by  CANADIAN,  SCOTCH- 
MAN and  NEW  ZEALANDER.  She  motions  them 
to  be  quiet,  and  points  to  the  two  new  cases. 
They  nod  and  creep  in.  The  COCKNEY  noise- 
lessly wheels  PAT  over  to  his  place.  As  the  NEW 
ZEALANDER  sits  down  by  his  cot  he  sees  the  ciga- 
rettes— gives  an  ejaculation,  picks  up  one — 
lights  it — and  inhales  with  evident  satisfaction. 
Then  the  COCKNEY  finds  the  "Refere"  and  cries 
under  his  breath,  "Bli'  me!" — throws  himself 
full  length  on  the  coverlet  and,  turning  to  the 
middle  page,  eagerly  reads  the  sporting  items. 
Then  the  CANADIAN  finds  the  cigars,  gives  a 
little  cry — bites  the  end  off  one,  lights  it,  and 
starts  smoking — his  face  beaming.  Lastly,  PAT, 
frowningly,  looking  around,  sees  the  chocolates 
on  his  pillow.  He  takes  them  up  suspiciously — 
slowly  a  broad  smile  creases  his  features.  He 
takes  a  chocolate  and  devours  it.  The  COCKNEY 
looks  at  ANNIE — and  points  her  out  to  CANA- 


ioo  OUT  THERE 

DIAN  and  the  others,  touching  his  head  to  indi- 
cate the  nurse's  cap.) 

CANADIAN.  (In  a  whisper)  Annie,  w'at's  thet 
fer? 

ANNIE.  (In  a  whisper)  I've  got  a  right  t'  wear 
it. 

CANADIAN.  (Whispering)  Wat?  Are  y' a  nurse? 

ANNIE.  (Solemnly  and  proudly)  Yaas,  I'm  has- 
sistant  nurse. 

END  OF  PART  II 


PART   III 
"REVELATION' 


"REVELATION" 

DIVISION  ONE 
SCENE:   MRS.  HUDD'S  rooms. 

MRS.  HUDD'S  living-room  has  been  considerably 
brightened.  It  is  cleaner  and  neater.  Many  new 
dishes  have  been  added  to  the  dresser.  A  good- 
sized  mirror  and  a  clock  adorn  the  walls.  The 
table  has  on  it  a  brightly  coloured  cloth. 

It  is  night.  The  room  is  lit  by  two  lamps,  one  on  the 
table  and  one  on  the  dresser.  There  is  a  gas-jet 
in  the  hallway. 

(The  door  opens  and  PRIVATE  HUDD,  in  uniform, 
looks  in.  His  face  is  tanned  by  the  sun  and 
wind,  and  he  is  attempting  to  grow  a  somewhat 
anaemic  moustache.  Finding  the  room  empty 
he  turns  and  beckons.) 


Come  in!  (MR.  MONTAGUE  MARSH  enters, 
very  much  better  dressed  than  when  we  last  saw  him. 
He  is  carrying  a  new  hat  and  cane,  and  is  gloved.) 
Sit  daan  !  (Goes  into  inner  room,  calling  out  bois- 
terously and  singing.) 

'Ere  we  are! 

'Ere  we  are! 

'Ere  we  are  again! 
'Ello,  Ma!     Wat  oh,  Liz! 

(His  mother  and  sister  can  be  heard  greeting  him.) 

103 


104  OUT  THERE 

MRS.  HUDD.     (Affectionately)    W'y,  'Erb! 
LIZZIE.    (With  no  enthusiasm)     'Ello. 
'ERB.    Go  in  an'  see  'oo  I've  brought  y'. 
LIZZIE.    'Oo? 
'ERB.    Go  in  an'  see. 

LIZZIE.     We're  not  'avin'  visitors  ju't  naa. 
'ERB.      (Pushing  her  into   the  room)     Ga'n  in. 
(He  closes  the  door.) 
LIZZIE.    'Ere !    'Oo  yer  shoving  of  ? 

(LizziE,  much  more  quietly  dressed,  and  far  more 
acerb  of  manner,  comes  in  suspiciously  and  looks 
at  MONTE  disgustedly.) 

"LizziE.     Monte!     (About  to  go  out  again.) 

MONTE.    Liz — Miss  'Udd 

"LizziE.    Wat  brought  y'  'ere? 

MONTE.  'E  did.  I  'appened  t'  meet  'Erb — Pri- 
vate 'Udd,  'e  likes  isself  t'  be  called  naa — met  'im 
yes'd'y  arft'noon,  an'  we  'ad  a  bit  of  a  chin.  An'  'e 
said,  "Come  on  'ome  wi*  me  t'morrer,"  'e  said.  "T'- 
morrer  evenin',"  'e  said.  An'  I  said,  "No" ;  I  said 
"No."  An'  e'  said,  "Yes" ;  'e  said,  "Y'  got  to."  So 
I  come.  I  'ear  the  rfoW-chap's  gorn? 

LIZZIE.     'Ootoldy'? 

MONTE.    'Erb. 

LIZZIE.    Like  'is  cheek! 

MONTE.  Trav'lin'  men  ain't  no  good.  Got  a  gal 
in  ev'ry  taan.  Nothin*  like  a  real  stand-by.  Y'  know 
w'ere  'e  maikes  'is  'ome. 

LIZZIE.    Yaas.    Woolwich ! 

MONTE.  An'  very  nice,  too.  W'at  abaat  it,  Liz — 
Miss  'Udd?  It's  there,  waitin'  f'r  y'. 

LIZZIE.  No  fear!  Not  with  all  I've  got  on  me 
mind! 

MONTE.    Oh ! 

LIZZIE.     I'm  'elpin*  the  Gov'm'nt  naa. 

MONTE.     I  know — munitions. 


OUT  THERE  105 

LIZZIE.  Yaas.  Wen  I've  pulled  them  through  I'll 
see  abaat  you — an'  Woolwich. 

MONTB.  (Going  to  her  joyfully)  Oh,  Liz — Miss 
'Udd! 

LIZZIE.    Aw  right  naa.     Taike  y'r  time! 

MONTE.     Then  I  m'y  'ope  ? 

LIZZIE.     The's  no  lawr  ag'in  'oping. 

MONTE.  (With  a  deep  breath)  Ah!  I  thought 
y'  loved  me. 

LIZZIE.  Loved  y'?  (Laughs  sneeringly.)  The's 
not  much  love  in  Camden  Taan. 

MONTE.  (Fervently)  There  is — in  Woolwich — 
lots  of  it.  Will  y'  walk  aat  ag'in? 

LIZZIE.  The's  no  'urry.  Wait  till  I've  done  me 
job.  Cawn't  think  o'  marriage  wi'  the  war  on. 

*ERB.    (From  inner  room)    Come  on,  Ma ! 

MRS.  HUDD.  (From  inner  room)  Aw  right, 
dearie. 

LIZZIE.  An',  see !  Nothin'  t'  ma,  or  'Erb,  or  it's 
all  orf. 

MONTE.  Aw  right,  Liz !  Then  I  m'y  come  araand 
an'  taike  y'  aat? 

LIZZIE.     I  s'pose  so. 

MONTE.    I  do  feel  'appy. 

LIZZIE.  Don'  taike  much  t'  maike  y'  'appy !  Do 
it? 

MONTE.     It  taikes  you. 

LIZZIE.     Y'  ain't  got  me  yet. 

MONTE.  G'wan !  (Playfully  slapping  her.)  Yaas, 
I  'ave. 

LIZZIE.    (Slapping  him  quite  hard)    No,  y'  ain't. 

MONTE.     (Slapping  her  again)    Oh,  yaas,  I  'ave. 

LIZZIE.    (Hitting  him  on  the  face)    I  s'y  you  ain't. 

('ERB  quietly  opens  the  door  and  brings  in  his  mother 
— they  both  see  the  blows.) 


106  OUT  THERE 

'ERB.  W'y,  they're  a-'ittin'  of  each  other.  They 
mus'  be  engaiged. 

LIZZIE.     (Angrily)     Not  yet,  I  ain't. 

'ERB.  But  y're  goin'  to  be.  I  know  'ow  y'  maikes 
love.  I've  seen  y'.  (To  MONTE  )  The  'arder  she 
'its,,  the  more  she  cares.  (To  LIZZIE)  Ga  on  !  Give 
'im  a  good  un. 

LIZZIE.  (Furiously)  Oh,  le'  me  alone!  (Goes 
away,) 

MRS.  HUDD.  (Very  respectably  dressed,  her  hair 
nicely  done,  and  her  whole  manner  very  much  im- 
proved, shakes  hands  with  MONTEJ  Very  glad,  I'm 
sure! 

MONTE.     It's  a  treat  t'  see  y',  Mrs.  'Udd. 

'ERB.     So  you're  workin'  reg'lar,  eh? 

MRS.  HUDD.  (In  a  very  superior  manner)  Yaas. 
'Erb.  Light,  but  steady!  I  hopens  the  door  at  an 
'orspital. 

'ERB.    An'  Liz  is  makin'  shells,  eh? 

LIZZIE.     An'  w'y  shouldn't  I  ?     They  p'ys  me  well. 

'ERB.  My  Gawd !  'Ow  the  money  rolls  in !  Liz 
maikes  the  shells !  Monte  maikes  the  guns !  I'm 
goin'  aat  t'  fire  'em !  Mother  opens  the  door  at  the 
'orspital!  An'  sister  Annie  nurses  'em!  Wat  oh, 
the'Udds!  (Sings) 

"  'Ere  we  are ! 
'Ere  we  are ! 
'Ere  we  are  ag'in!" 
(To  LIZZIE)    S'y,  I've  got  a  little  treat  f'r  y'  t'night. 

LIZZIE.     (Brightening)    The  theaytre? 

'ERB.     Naow.     Better'n  thet. 

LIZZIE.     Wat  ? 

'ERB.     A  recruitin*  meetin'. 

LIZZIE.    (Disgustedly)    Oh !     Not  f'r  me ! 

'ERB.     'Oo  d'y  think's  goin'  t'  speak? 

LIZZIE.     'Oo?    Lloy'  George? 

'ERB.     Naow,  Annie! 

LIZZIE.    Annie  f    Annie  speak  ? 


OUT  THERE  107 

'ERB.    Yaas. 

LIZZIE.    Oh,  my  Gawd ! 

'ERB.     Don't  y'  maike  no  mistake !    She  can. 

LIZZIE.     (Laughs  disdainfully)    Ha! 

MRS.  HUDD.  An'  w'y  not?  W'y  shouldn't  she 
speak?  Ain't  she  my  daughter? 

LIZZIE.     Yaas.     Thet's  w'y! 

MRS.  HUDD.  (To  MONTE  j  Me  pore  gran'father 
could  speak  for  howers  without  a  heffort  w'en  'e 
was  in  the  'Ouse  of  Commons.  For  howers  with- 
out a  heffort. 

LIZZIE.     Were? 

MRS.  HUDD.  (With  great  dignity)  In  the  'Ouse 
of  Commons !  An'  the  'ole  country  a-waitin'  to  'ear 
'wat  'e  said ! 

LIZZIE.     'Erb!     She's  orf  ag'in! 

'ERB.  'Course,  I  never  seed  'im,  but  from  all  I 
'ear,  your  poor  old  gran'father  must  'a'  bin  a  bit  of 
all  right. 

MRS.  HUDD.     Mr.  Marsh? 

MONTE.     Yes,  ma'am. 

MRS.  HUDD.  Did  y'  ever  'ear  o'  my  pore  ole  gran'- 
father? 

MONTE.     I  must  'ave.     Wat  was  'is  naime  ? 

MRS.  HUDD.  'Is  naime  was  Boyle.  Y'  see,  me 
married  naime's  'Udd,  but  I'm  really  a  Boyle  on  me 
mother's  side.  Oh,  'e  could  talk.  O,  my  Gord ;  'ow 
he  could  talk!  W'y,  many's  the  time  with  thou- 
sands o'  people  'e'd 

'ERB.  Aw  right,  Ma!  Git  y'r  bonnit  on,  an'  y'r 
shawl.  We  got  a  long  w'y  to  go. 

MRS.  HUDD.  H'all  right,  dearie!  But  don't  y' 
maike  no  mistaike  abaat  Annie.  She's  not  my  daugh- 
ter f'r  nothink.  (To  MONTEJ  D'  y'  know  she's  a 
fully  sterrified  nurse? 

MONTE.     Go  on,  ma'am,  is  she? 

'ERB.     Certified,  she  means. 


io8  OUT  THERE 

MRS.  HUDD.  Very  glad  yer  goin'  ter  join  the  'Udd 
family. 

'ERB.  Come  on,  'urry  up,  Ma !  It's  goin'  t'  be  a 
graite  meetin'.  (Passes  her  across  to  the  door.  She 
goes  out.  'ERB,  closing  the  door  after  her,  sings, 
"'Ere  we  are  ag'in")  Pore  ol'  Ma!  An'  Gran'- 
father !  Come  on.  Liz !  Put  y'r  duds  on ! 

LIZZIE.     I  don't  care  abaat  goin'. 

MONTE.  (Jumping  at  the  opportunity)  Nor  do 
I.  Tell  y'  w'at !  I'll  st'y  'ere  with  you. 

'ERB.  (Threateningly)  Wat's  thet?  You  st'y 
'ere  wi*  Liz?  Not  if  I  knows  it,  y'  won't! 

LIZZIE.  Never  you  mind  abaat  'is  st'yin' !  Rather 
'n  that,  I'd  'ear  Annie  speak.  I'll  go.  (Takes  her 
hat  and  coat  from  nail  on  side  of  dresser.) 

'ERB.  (Glaring  at  MONTEJ  Not  so  much  of  the 
"Stay  'ere  with  Liz"  stuff!  You  come  along  with 
me.  See  ? 

MONTE.  Aw  right,  'Erb!  Didn't  mean  nothin'. 
(Thoroughly  cowed.) 

'ERB.  I  should  think  not,  indeed.  S'y,  Lizzie! 
Don'  tell  ma  yet.  I'm  goin'  aat  nex'  week. 

LIZZIE.    Were  ? 

'ERB.    Aat  there. 

LIZZIE.    Are  y'?     (Indifferently.) 

'ERB.  Yaas.  An'  mebbe  I  ain't  glad !  Nat  'alf ! 
I'm  sick  o'  marchin*  abaat  an'  stickin'  bags  with  a 
bay'nit.  I  want  t'  stick  some  o'  them  blighters. 
W'at  oh! 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  my !  Ain't  we  savige !  Y'  wasn't  so 
anxious  a  w'ile  ago. 

'ERB.     Well,  I  am  naa.    See? 

LIZZIE.  (Sneeringly)  'Cos  y'  was  ashaimed.  An- 
nie maide  y'  ashaimed. 

'ERB.     An'  w'at  if  she  did? 

LIZZIE.     Oh!     Annie! 

'ERB.     She's  done  well — ain't  she? 

LIZZIE.     So  she  says.    We  ain't  seen  'er. 


*    OUT  THERE  109 

'ERB.  'Cos  she  ain't  'ad  a  chance  t'  come.  (To 
MONTE)  She's  bin  maikin'  speeches  all  raan'  the 
country.  This  is  'er  firs'  night  in  London.  'Ope  / 
does  as  well  as  she  'as.  'Taint  every  one  can  go  aat 
as  she  did  an  'come  back  an'  maike  speeches. 

LIZZIE.  'Er  maikin'  speeches!  She  don'  know 
no  more  words  'n  7  do. 

'ERB.  She  can  use  w'at  she's  got.  (To  MONTE  J 
She's  bin  recmitin'  all  daan  from  Liverpool,  an'  pull- 
in'  'em  in,  d'y  an'  night.  W'y,  one  place  she  got 
two  —  an'  they  didn't  even  know  there  was  a  war  on. 
She's  wot  the  paipers  calls  a  —  'yptonist  - 

MONTE.     Oh,  indeed  —  is  that  so? 

'ERB.  You  know!  Kind  o'  sends  y'  t'  sleep,  an* 
we'n  y*  waikes  up  y're  in  the  army.  Thet's  w'at 
she  does. 

LIZZIE.     Oh  !    Annie!    Gives  me  a  pain  ! 

Y'  wouldn't  think  they  was  sisters,  would 


MONTE.     (Frightenedly)    Oh,  I  dunno. 

LIZZIE.  Yaas,  y'  do!  W'y  don't  y'  own  up? 
W'at  do  7  care  if  she  is  a  nurse? 

'ERB.     She's  jealous.    Thet's  what  she  is. 

LIZZIE.    Me? 

'ERB.    Yaas. 

LIZZIE.    Jealous  of  Annie? 

'ERB.    Thet's  w'at  I  said. 

LIZZIE.  (Furiously  to  MONTE}  'Ere,  wot  d*  you 
think? 

MONTE.  (Alarmed)  Well,  er  -  Why,  er  - 
Y'  know,  er  -  (Stops.) 

LIZZIE.  (Imitating  him)  Well,  er  -  Why,  er 
You  know,  er  -  W'at  kind  o'  talk  is  thet? 


(Turns  to  'ERB.j     W'y,  Annie's- 

'ERB.  (Seriously)  'Ere !  Thet's  enough  o'  thet ! 
See  ?  She's  our  sister.  And  I'm  praad  of  it.  France 
'ad  a  Joan  of  Hare!  Aw  right,  then.  We've  got  a 
Annie  'Udd!  She  showed  me  w'at  for.  An*  I've 


no  OUT  THERE 

never  bin  'appier  f'r  anythin'  I've  done  than  I've  bin 
f'r  inlistin'.  See?  Not  even  w'en  I  won  me  first 
fight  !  Yaas  !  An'  this  is  a  bigger  fight  'n  thet.  I'm 
goin'  to  'it  the  fellers  I  'ates  —  not  me  own  kind. 
Thet's  w'at  she  said.  See?  An'  I  can  look  people 
str'ight  in  the  faice  naa  as  I  walks  daan  the  street. 
An'  they  looks  at  me  in  these  'ere  —  (Pointing  to  his 
uniform)  —  as  if  they  was  praad  o'  me.  An'  I'm 
praad  o'  meself.  Thet's  Annie's  doin'.  So  you  jes' 
shut  up  talkin'  ag'in'  'er.  See? 

LIZZIE.     (Turning  away,  a  little  ashamed)     Oh! 

'ERB.  (Watches  her  —  then  goes  to  her  and  puts 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder)  Liz  !  Liz  !  I  didn't  mean 
t'  - 

LIZZIE.  (Distractedly)  Oh!  Lea'e  me  alone, 
cawn't  y'  ?  Annie  !  Annie  !  Annie  !  Jes'  becos  she 
sneaked  'er  w'y  inter  bein'  a  nurse  ! 

(MRS.  HUDD  comes  in  -with  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 
She  is  carrying  a  familiar,  large  black  bottle.) 


'Ere  we  are,  Ma!  (Sees  the  bottle.)  W'at 
oh!  A  little  drop  o'  "the  old,"  eh?  (Takes  the 
bottle,  gives  a  cry,  puts  it  down  quickly  on  the  table, 
and  wrings  his  fingers.)  Bli'  me!  Wat's  in  the 
bottle? 

MRS.  HUDD.     'Ot  water,  dearie. 

'ERB.     'Ot  water? 

MRS.  HUDD.  Yaas.  So  good  f'r  the  'eart,  y' 
know.  The  pore  doctor  bordered  it  with  'is  larst 
breath. 

'ERB.     What?    Are  y'  givin'  up  the  "Velvet"? 

MRS.  HUDD.     Yaas,  'Erb.     I  are. 

'ERB.     F'rhever? 

MRS.  HUDD.  No,  hindeed!  F'r  the  duration  o' 
the  war.  We  all  got  t'  give  up  somethin'.  So  I  give 
hit  up.  You  don't  think  it  will  be  a  long  war,  do 
you,  'Erb? 


OUT  THERE  in 

*ERB.  Not  w'en  some  of  us  gets  out  there 

(Digging  her  playfully  in  the  ribs.)  You're  all  right, 
you  are !  'Ere,  Monte,  look  slippy.  (  MONTE  goes 
up  to  the  door.)  Put  that  aat,  Liz.  (Pointing  to 
lamp  on  dresser,  which  LIZZIE  turns  out.  MONTE 
opens  door.)  'Ere  y*  are,  Ma.  You'd  better  take 
the  bottle — you  got  your  gloves  on. 

LIZZIE.  (As  they  go  to  outer  door)  Fine  evenin* 
this  is  goin'  to  be!  Annie!  (Pushes  her  way  past 
MONTE  and  MRS.  HUDD  and  goes  out.) 

MRS.  HUDD.     My  pore  gran' farther 

LIZZIE.  Oh,  gran'farther  me'  at!  (Opening  the 
outer  door.) 

MRS.  HUDD.  (To  MONTE  as  they  go  out  into  the 
street)  'E  was  w'at  they  calls  a  nachral  horator ! 

*ERB.  (Leaves  the  inner  door  open,  turns  the  gas 
in  the  corridor  down  to  half -strength,  and  goes  to  the 
outside  of  the  outer  door.)  Raan'  t'  the  right! 
(Bangs  the  outer  door.)  Keep  on  the  paivement, 
Ma.  An'  mind  y'r  bottle ! 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  DIVISION  OF  PART  THREE 


DIVISION  TWO 

A  Public  Place 
THE  NURSE 


Courtesy   of  White   Studio 


THE  NURSE 


"REVELATION" 
DIVISION  Two 

The  scene  represents  the  base  of  the  Nelson  Column 
in  Trafalgar  Square,  London,  at  night.  In  the 
distance  are  street  lamps  dimly  lighted. 

ANNIE  stands  on  the  plinth  at  the  base  of  the  column 
in  the  costume  of  a  fully  qualified  Red  Cross 
Nurse. 

Below  her,  and  in  front  of  her,  is  a  crowd. 

As  the  curtain  rises  the  crowd  is  cheering  ANNIE. 

ANNIE.  It's  funny,  me  standin*  up  'ere  maikin* 
speeches !  I  ain't  got  much  o'  w'at  y*  call  a — v'cab- 
yerlerry,  but  I've  faand  it  ain't  alwa's  the  biggest 
words  as  maikes  big  things  clear.  A  simple  talk  is 
best  understood  by  simple  people,  ain't  it?  Y'  tell 
'ow  y'r  feller  loves  y'  by  the  w'y  'e  looks  at  y',  not 
by  w'at  'e  says.  Y'  know  a  frien's  a  frien'  by  the 
hatmosphere  thet's  maide  w'en  you're  together.  An* 
so  I  want  y'  t'  see  love  f  'r  me  own  kind  in  me  eyes 
as  I  speak,  an'  I  want  y'  t'  feel  a  hatmosphere  o' 
frien's — like  even  w'en  I  arsts  y'  t'  go  aat  there  an' 
p'r'aps  git  killed — w'ich  don'  seem  hixac'ly  frien'ly, 
do  it?  I  ain't  f'r  war.  But  I  earn'  see  w'at  you're 
goin'  t'  do  w'en  y'r  country's  in  it  except  'elp  y'r 
country.  If  you  'old  back,  you're  'elpin'  the  enemy, 
ain't  y'  ?  There  ain't  no  other  w'y  o'  fiiggerin'.  Naa, 
suppose  y'  don'  go  aat.  "No,"  y'  says  t'  y'rself.  "Hi 
got  me  wife  an'  kids.  Hi  got  me  shop."  Very  well ! 
I'll  talk  yo're  kind  o'  talk.  If  the  henemy  ever  gits 
'ere  d'  y'  fink  'e'll  let  y'  keep  y'r  shop  ?  No,  young 


ii6  OUT  THERE 

feller-me-lad.  They  need  it  t'  maike  up  f  'r  the  shops 
they  lef  be'ind.  An'  they'll  taike  it  if  y'  don't  'elp  t' 
keep  'em  aat  o'  y'r  country.  An'  y'r  wife  an'  kids ! 
So  'elp  me!  If  y'd  seen  w'at  I've  seen  an'  knoo 
w'at  7  know,  y'  wouldn't  'old  back.  Y'  wouldn' 
wait  f'r  'em  t'  come  into  England.  Y'd  be  willin'  t' 
go  aat  an'  fight  'em  wiv  y'r  fem'ly  miles  be'ind  y'  in 
their  'omes,  instead  o'  waitin'  till  the  henemy  comes 
over  'ere  an'  knocks  y'r  fem'ly  abaat,  an'  y'  'ave  t' 
fight  by  y'rself — wiv  no  charnce  o'  success,  instead  o' 
wiv  thaasan's  o'  y'r  own  kind  to  'elp  y'.  An'  w'en 
it's  over,  w'y,  y'  won'  know  w'ere  to  go  f'r  comp'ny — 
unless  y'  maike  up  a  batallion  called  "The  Never- 
Do-Nothin'-f'r-Nobodies,"  an'  all  stick  t'gether  in  a 
dark  corner.  'Cos  y'  ain*  goin'  t'  be  aible  t'  'sociate 
wiv  the  lads  y'  knoo  afore  the  war.  They're  gorn 
way  beyond  you,  'cos  they've  realized  thet  w'en  y' 
s'y  "My  Country"  y'  don'  mean  the  so-many  miles 
o'  dirt  thet's  called  Hingland  or  Hamerica,  or  w'at- 
ever  country  y'  'appen  t'  belong  t'.  "Your  Country" 
means  your  right  t'  live  hindependent  on  those  miles 
o'  dirt — hindependent  in  y'r  bizniss,  y'r  religion,  an' 
y'r  fem'ly. 

The  bes'  thing  t'  do  naa  is  t'  join  the  army  an' 
pertect  y'  wife  an'  y'r  kids  an'  y'r  shop.  After  the 
war,  w'en  men  realize  thet  the  honly  thing  as  can  be 
perfected  t'  stand  ag'inst  the  bes'  machinery  an'  the 
bigges'  guns  is  the  soul  of  a  people,  we  won't  'ave 
no  more  wars.  Up  t'  naa,  we  ain'  give  as  much  at- 
tention t'  perfectin'  the  sperrit  Gawd  give  us  as  we 
'ave  to  aar  movies  an'  telephones.  At  the  presen* 
time,  set  a  million  people  armed  wiv  peace-an'-good- 
will  ag'inst  a  million  people  armed  wiv  shrapnel,  an' 
w'at  'appens?  In  the  present  siterwation  the  on'y 
thing  t'  do  is  t'  horfer  peace  wiv  one  'and,  but  be 
sure  the  other's  full  o'  shrapnel.  Hi  know  a  nation 
w'at's  full  o'  the  Gawd-like  sperrit.  They  tried  it 
f'r  months.  They  said  t'  the  henemy,  "  'Ere !  W'at 


OUT  TPJERE  117 

d'  y'  mean?  Doncher  know  no  better?  Hixplaine 
y'rself!  W'y  did  y'  do  thet?"  Did  the  henemy 
reco'nize  it,  an*  s'y,  "Wat  a  Gawd-like  sperrit !  'Ow 
Christian-like!"  An'  act  Christian-like  in  return? 
No!  The  henemy  said,  "Wat  oh!  Wat  'ave  we 
faand?  'Ere's  a  nation  o'  nuts!"  That  nation  'as 
naa  realized  w'at  we  realized  a  few  years  ago — thet 
a  gun  in  y'r  'and  don't  mean  thet  you're  goin'  t' 
shoot,  but  it  does  maike  the  other  feller  listen  t'  w'at 
you've  got  t'  s'y. 

So  come  on,  young  feller-me-lads,  an'  join  up! 
Give  me  y'r  an's  an'  s'y  y'll  fight  f'r  y'r  country! 
Give  those  brutes  all  the  war  they  want !  Give  'em 
war  until  the  very  word  "War"  maikes  'em  sick  to 
their  stomicks  to  'ear  it!  Give  'em  war  until  they 
pray  for  peace — the  honly  peace  we  Henglish  will 
agree  to — peace  wiv  the  victory  of  all  civilization 
over  the  foulest,  dirtiest,  vilest  race  that  ever  dis- 
figured this  'ere  earth!  Come  on,  boys!  Join  up! 
Carry  on !  Who  comes  first  ?  (As  the  hands  go  up 
to  clasp  hers.) 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 
THE  END 


The  Return  of  Hi  Jinks 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marion  Short,  author  of  "The  Varsity 
Coach,"  "The  Touch-Down, "  etc.  6  males,  8  females.  Costumes 
Jnodern.  One  interior  scene. 

This  comedy  is  founded  upon  and  elaborated  from  a  farce  comedy 
In  two  acts  written  by  J.  H.  Horta,  and  originally  produced  at  Tuft's 
College. 

Hiram  Poynter  Jinks,  a  Junior  in  Hoosic  College  (Willie  Collier 
type),  and  a  young  moving  picture  actress  (Mary  Pickford  type),  are 
the  leading  characters  in  this  lively,  modern  farce. 

Thomas  Hodge,  a  Senior,  envious  of  the  popularity  of  Jinks,  wishes 
to  think  up  a  scheme  to  throw  ridicule  upon  him  during  a  visit  of 
the  Hoosic  Glee  Club  to  Jinks's  home  town.  Jinks  has  obligingly  acted 
as  a  one-day  substitute  in  a  moving  picture  play,  in  which  there  is  a 
fire  scene,  and  this  gives  Hodge  his  cue.  He  sends  what  seems  to 
be  a  bona  fide  account  of  Jink's  heroism  at  a  Hoosic  fire  to  Jink's 
home  paper.  Instead  of  repudiating  his  laurels  as  expected,  Jinks 
decides  to  take  a  flyer  in  fame,  confirms  the  fake  story,  confesses  to 
being  a  hero  and  is  adored!  by  all  the  girls,  to  the  chagrin  and  dis- 
comfiture of  Hodge.  Of  course,  the  truth  comes  out  at  last,  but 
Jinks  is  not  hurt  thereby,  and  his  romance  with  Mimi  Mayflower 
comes  to  a  successful  termination. 

This  is  a  great  comedy  for  amateurs.  It  is  full  of  funny  situations 
and  is  sure  to  please.  Price,  30  Cents. 


i 


une 

A  most  successful  comedy-drama  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran, 
author  of  "The  New  Co-Ed,"  "Tempest  and  Sunshine,"  "Dorothy's 
Neighbors,"  etc.  4  males,  8  females.  One  interior  scene.  Costumes 
modern.  Plays  2J4  hours. 

This  play  has  a  very  interesting  group  of  young  people.  June  is 
an  appealing  little  figure,  an  orphan  living  with  her  aunt.  There  are 
a  number  of  delightful,  life-like  characters:  the  sorely  tried  likeable 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  the  amusing,  haughty  Miss  Banks  of  the  glove  depart- 
ment, the  lively  Tilly  and  Milly,  who  work  in  the  store,  and  ambitious 
Snoozer;  Mrs.  Hopkins's  only  son,  who  aspires  to  be  President  of  the 
United  States,  but  finds  his  real  sphere  is  running  the  local  trolley 
car.  The  play  is  simplicity  itself  in  the  telling  of  an  every-day  story, 
and  the  scenic  requirements  call  for  only  one  set,  a  room  in  the 
boarding  house  of  Mrs.  Hopkins,  while  an  opportunity  is  afforded  to 
introduce  any  number  of  extra  characters.  Musical  numbers  may  be 
introduced,  if  desired.  Price,  30  Cents, 

Tempest  and  Sunshine 

A  comedy  drama  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran.  5  males  and  3 
females.  One  exterior  and  three  interior  scenes.  Plays  about  2  hours. 

Every  school  girl  has  revelled  in  the  sweet  simplicity  and  gentle- 
ness of  the  characters  interwoven  in  the  charms  that  Mary  J.  Holmet 
commands  in  her  story  cf  "Tempest  and  Sunshine."  We  can  strongly 
recommend  this  play  as  one  of  the  best  plays  for  high  school  pro- 
duction published  in  recent  years.  Price,  30  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  Citj 

Ha>  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue   Mailed  Free    u  Rsuuasi 


The  Touch-Down 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marion  Short.  8  males,  6  females,  tmt 
any  number  of  characters  can  be  introduced  in  the  ensembles.  Cos- 
tumes modern.  One  interior  scene  throughout  the  play.  Time,  2j£ 
hours. 

This  play,  written  for  the  use  of  clever  amateurs,  is  the  story  _of 
life  in  Siddell,  a  Pennsylvania  co-educational  college.  It  deals  "With 
the  vicissitudes  and  final  triumph  of  the  Siddell  Football  Eleven,  &nd 
the  humorous  and  dramatic  incidents  connected  therewith. 

"The  Touch-Down"  has  the  true  varsity  atmosphere,  college  songs 
are  sung,  and  the  piece  is  lively  and  entertaining  throughout.  High 
schools  will  make  no  mistake  in  producing  this  play.  We  strongly 
recommend  it  as  a  high-class  and  well-written  comedy. 

Price,  30  Cants. 

Hurry,  Hurry,  Hurry 

A  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  LeRoy  Arnold.  5  males,  4  females, 
One  interior  scene.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2J4  hours. 

The  story  is  based  on  the  will  of  an  eccentric  aunt.  It  stipulates 
that  her  pretty  niece  must  be  affianced  before  rhe  is  twenty-one,  and 
married  to  her  fiance  within  a  year,  if  she  is  to  get  her  spinster 
relative's  million.  Father  has  nice  notions  of  honor  and  fails  to  tell 
daughter  about  the  will,  so  that  she  may  make  her  choice  untram- 
meled  by  any  other  consideration  than  that  of  true  love.  The  action 
all  takes  place  in  the  evening  the  midnight  of  which  will  see  her 
reach  twenty-one.  Time  is  therefore  short,  and  it  is  hurry,  hurry, 
hurry,  if  she  is  to  become  engaged  and  thus  save  her  father  from 
impending  bankruptcy. 

The  situations  are  intrinsically  funny  and  the  dialogue  is  sprightly. 
The  characters  are  natural  and  unaffected  and  the  action  moves  with 
a  snap  such  as  should  be  expected  from  its  title.  Price,  30  Cents. 

The  Varsity  Coach 

A  three-act  play  of  college  life,  by  Marion  Short,  specially  adapted 
to  performance  by  amateurs  or  high  school  students.  5  males  6 
females,  but  any  number  of  boys  and  girls  may  be  introduced  in  the 
action  of  the  play.  Two  settings  necessary,  a  college  boy's  room  an<l 
the  university  campus.  Time,  about  2  hours. 

Like  many  another  college  boy,  "Bob"  Selby,  an  all-round  popular 
college  man,  becomes  possessed  of  the  idea  that  athletic  prowess  is 
more  to  be  desired  than  scholarship.  He  is  surprised  in  the  midst  of 
a  "spread"  in  his  room  in  Regatta  week  by  a  visit  from  his  aunt 
who  is  putting  him  through  college.  Aunt  Serena,  "a  lady  of  the  old 
school  and  the  dearest  little  woman  in  the  whole  world,"  has  hastened 
to  make  this  visit  to  her  adored  nephew  under  the  mistaken  impression 
that  he  is  about  to  receive  the  Fellowes  prize  for  scholarship.  Her 
grief  and  chagrin  when  she  learns  that  instead  of  the  prize  Robert 
has  received  "a  pink  card,"  which  is  equivalent  to  suspension  for  poor 
scholarship,  gives  a  touch  of  pathos  to  an  otherwise  jolly  comedy  of 
college  life.  How  the  repentant  Robert  more  than  redeems  himself, 
carries  off  honors  at  the  last,  and  in  the  end  wins  Ruth,  the  faithful 
little  sweetheart  of  the  "Prom"  and  the  classroom,  makes  a  story  oi 
dramatic  interest  and  brings  out  very  clearly  certain  phases  of  modern 
college  life.  There  are  several  opportunities  for  the  introduction  of 
college  songs  and  "stunts."  Price,  30  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 
toy   airi  Explicit    Diicriptmi  Catalogue  Mailed   Frit  oa  RIOIMS* 


Nothing  But  the  Truth 

A  Farcical  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By 

James  Montgomery 
Cast  of  Characters 

Bennett 
B.  M.  Ralston 
Clarence  Van  Dusen 
Bishop  Doran 
Dick  Donnelly 
Gwen 

Mrs.  Ralston 
Ethel 
Mable 
Sable 

SCENES 

ACT  i.    A  Broker'*  Office 

ACT  2.     Parlor  of  a  Country  Home 

ACT  3. 

TIME:     The  Present 

"Nothing  But  the  Truth"  is  built  upon  the  simpk.  Idea 
Of  its  hero  speaking  nothing  but  the  absolute  truth  /for  a 
stated  period.  He  bets  a  friend  ten  thousand  dollar* 
that  he  can  do  it,  and  boldly  tackles  truth  to  win  the 
money.  For  a  very  short  time  the  task  is  placidly  easy, 
but  Truth  routs  out  old  man  Trouble  and  then  things  be- 
gin to  happen.  Trouble  doesn't  seem  very  large  and 
aggressive  when  he  first  pokes  his  nose  into  the  noble 
resolve  of  our  hero,  but  he  grows  rapidly  and  soon  we 
Bee  our  dealer  in  truth  disrupting  the  domestic  relations 
of  his  partner.  In  fact,  Trouble  works  overtime,  and 
reputations  that  have  been  unblemished  are  smirched. 
Situations  that  are  absurd  and  complications  almost 
knotted,  pile  up,  all  credited  to  Truth,  and  the  result  of 
the  wager  to  foster  and  cherish  that  great  virtue  from 
the  lips  of  the  man  who  has  espoused  the  cause  of  truth 
to  win  a  wager. 

It  is  a  novel  idea  and  so  well  has  it  been  worked  out 
that  an  audience  is  kept  in  throes  of  laughter  at  the 
seemingly  impossible  task  to  untangle  snarls  into  which 
our  hero  has  involved  all  those  he  comes  into  contact 
with.  It  is  a  clean  bright  farce  of  well  drawn  character! 
and  was  built  for  laughing  purposes  only. 

William  Collier  played  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  for  a 
year  at  the  Longacre  Theatre,  New  York,  and  it  has  been 
on  tour  for  over  two  seasons. 

After  three  years  continuous  success  on  the  profess- 
ional stage  we  are  now  offering  "Nothing  But  the  Truth" 
for  amateur  production.  It  is  one  of  the  funniest  and 
brightest  farces  ever  written,  and  it  is  admirably  suite*' 
fco  amateur  production. 

PBZCE  60  CENTS 


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